Pieces of a Dream
by WeirdEmmaline
Summary: This is a compilation of reject bits from a Phantom of the Opera series I'm writing. It will also contain various random drabbles. None of the chapters are continuations of each other unless otherwise specified. Some of these chapters might be rescued and become their own fics at a much later date.
1. Present Day AU snippet

"No, no, not today!" Christine hissed as she biked through the busy city streets. She was late, yet again, for the one thing that mattered to her. Today, it seemed, would be the day that sculpted her future, but not in the way she wanted.

She parked her bike behind the theater, only securing it to the bike rack with a chain and padlock as an afterthought, and raced inside.

Almost immediately, a stage manager was on her ass. "Where have you been? We've already called in the second understudy!"

Christine's heart dropped. She was too late. She'd known she'd be taking Carlotta's role on for a week while the famed soprano was on vacation, but four of the seven performances she was supposed to have been featured in she'd missed now.

"I have half a mind to send you home right now."

"No, Andre please— I'm sorry," Christine begged. She was near tears now. _Stupid, stupid girl,_ she thought miserably, _how many times have I set that alarm clock? Stupid!_ "It won't happen again."

The man looked her up and down, scrutinizing her slender form and soft, blond curls. He sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this. One last chance, miss Daae. But you're not to leave the theater between now and this evening's performance. You're too late for the matinee, I'm afraid."

"Thank you!" she squealed. The manager huffed.

"Just stay out of the way and keep quiet," he said before pushing past her and hollering for one of the children they had working on the show.

Christine sighed, relieved, as she continued on toward the dressing room, where she knew she'd be spending the majority of the next four hours. Along the way, she stopped to watch a few of the dancers warming up for the show.

She didn't know most of the cast by name, as she'd been hired on four months into the production, but she recognized one girl as Meg Giry. She was an incredible dancer, even if her form was a little sloppy. Only a few other girls could dance en pointe.

Christine looked away quickly when Meg's eyes darted up and met hers, and she could feel her skin flushing bright red as she turned and hurried on her way.

She was surprised to find the dressing room empty, but she knew that the second understudy wasn't as good with her faster costume changes, so her wardrobe had likely been moved just offstage for the show.


	2. Erik is a douche to vicomtes

At once all of her strength melted away when she saw Raoul hanging limp against his restraints. Her hands flew to her mouth and her knees went weak. For once she found herself feeling grateful for the gruff way in which Erik clung to her arm. It seemed that her captor's grip on her upper arm was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Erik— oh Erik, what have you _done_?" Her own voice sounded foreign to her as the shrill cry escaped her lips and echoed through the tunnel.

"He is not mortally wounded," the Opera Ghost replied coldly. He released Christine's arm from his grasp, expecting her to run forth and reach for him through the bars. Instead, she slumped forward to her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks as she broke down.

"How can you play such games with our lives?" she demanded, her voice quivering as she stifled a sob.

"How did you think you could hide your engagement from me, Christine?" Erik hissed. She cringed. The ring that rested against her chest suddenly felt like it weighed as much as a boulder.

"You promised your soul to me in exchange for the lessons I offered. You did so freely and of your own accord."

"That was when I thought you were an angel!" Christine snapped. "Before I knew what you really are."

"A monster," Raoul coughed. Christine snapped her head up to look at the man chained to the wall. He stood on his own. His stance was weak and he relied heavily on the chains to keep him steady, but he was awake.

"Raoul!" she shrieked, and all but flew to his side. Through the smooth iron bars that separated them, Christine could almost reach his hand. Their fingertips touched as she reached for him. "I'm going to get you out of there, I promise."

"I wouldn't be so quick to promise such things, Miss Daae." There was something ominous about his words, more so than anything else he'd said that evening.

_Just say it already_, Christine thought as she slowly turned away from Raoul to face the masked man again. _I already know what you want. Just say it. Confirm how despicable you are._

"I could be your angel of music once more, Christine. Just say that you'll be mine and we'll leave Paris. We can travel the world, make our own home wherever your heart desires. We will find another opera, another theater, another company where you will be the brightest star. With my help, you will outshine even the sun. Say the word, Christine, and I will cut the vicomte free, but you'll never see him again."

Christine took a deep breath to steady herself before asking, "And if I refuse?" Erik's laughter sent chills down her spine as it echoed through the corridor and tiny cell.

"Whatever he threatens, it's not worth it," Raoul murmured.

"Are you so sure, Vicomte?"

"Raoul—"

"Should you choose _him_," Erik spat the word as though it left a foul taste in his mouth, "you will watch the life leave his eyes. I will see to that."

Christine stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. Erik's yellow eyes glared back at her, daring her to choose. His gaze made her more uncomfortable than it ever had. She turned to look back at Raoul, who had gone quite pale at the prospect of what had just been said.

"Don't lie to him to save me," he said after a long moment of looking into Christine's face. "Get out of here alive. Live, Christine. For both of us."

Fresh tears stung her eyes as she reached through the bars once more. As her fingertips brushed his, Erik tore her violently away.

"You try my patience," he growled directly into her ear. "Make your choice."

"Let him go," she begged, " please, just let him go."

"Christine, no!" Raoul cried. Erik made no move to free the vicomte, however. He stared down at her expectantly as she pleaded with him to just let them go. The sadness in her eyes broke what little there was left of his heart.

"Erik, I will stay with you. Just please, let him go. He needs a doctor's care!"

He knew that he should be thrilled. It was exactly what he had wanted to hear all along. She would stay with him. For once, Erik would be afforded the companion he had craved for so very long.

So why did he feel so hollow? He should've been overjoyed. He should've thrown his arms around her and never let go. Instead, he found no happiness in what he had yearned for all his life. Sorrow was all that life held for poor, wretched Erik.

"You think your false promises will spare him?" His words dripped with venom and he launched them at Christine with incredible ferocity. She was taken aback by his reaction, not fully understanding what was happening until she watched him open the cell door. She expected him to let Raoul down right away. That's what he promised.

But instead of removing the chains that bound the young vicomte, he reached into the darkness beyond him and withdrew a short length of metal. Both Christine and Raoul realized what was happening seconds too late to do anything. The metal bar, which was not unlike the bars that made up the door, made a horrible cracking sound as it made contact with the side of Raoul's ribcage.

Christine's and Raoul's screams mixed with the sound of meat being tenderized as Erik beat the younger man again and again.


	3. Rude

"I want…" the man seemed to be, for the first time that Christine could remember, at a loss for words. "I want you to stop asking me such foolish questions." The words were spat at her with the cold severity she had come to accept as the standard from the man who kept her captive.

It was a long moment before she realized that she was still standing there, her fingertips touching the white crescent-shaped mask that covered all but his mouth and chin, in her dressing gown. Were it not quite so dark in Erik's home she might have been mortified. As it was, she quickly wrenched her wrist away from his icy grip and turned to face her body away from him, covering her curves as best she could with her thin, strong dancer's arms.

Almost as quickly as he had appeared in the door to the bedroom he had afforded her, he was gone and the door was locked behind him. Though she threw herself at the heavy wooden door, it wouldn't budge. Wouldn't even creak from her effort, in fact.

Feeling utterly hopeless once more, she sank to the floor, brought her knees to her chest, and wept.


	4. Mind if I rip your heart out?

"No, Erik please you don't have to do this," Christine begged, clinging to the hem of his jacket. "Please!"

He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't meet her gaze. Swallowing hard, he freed himself from her grasp and shot Raoul a look that said, 'get her out of here now.'

"You'll find your way to the street if you go straight down this tunnel to the fork and then take a left."

Raoul, grimacing in pain with every step he took, limped over to Christine and firmly but gently took her by the wrist with his unbroken hand. "Christine," he whispered, "we really don't want to be here when that is ignited."

Raoul never once looked away from the masked man who had caused him such pain. To him, the only problem with the Phantom blowing himself— and the opera house— sky high was that it wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of viewing the man's corpse once the deed was done.

"Erik—"

"Go now and leave me," he said, cutting her off.

"Erik, please."

"Go now _and leave me!_" he hollered, throwing his arms up to lash out at her. He didn't want to hit her, but if it made her go, if it got her to safety…

Christine jerked away from Raoul's grasp and threw herself at Erik. _I can't let him do this_, she thought_, I can't let him kill himself and everyone else in the opera house._

She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling herself in his long limbs as he staggered backwards in surprise.

"Christine-?" His confused exclamation was cut short as her tiny pink lips met with his bloated purple ones. His entire body stiffened at the contact. His mind was swimming with confused and terrified thoughts as he raised shaking arms to embrace the tiny soprano.

It was only when he began to sob that Christine slowly pulled her lips away and opened her eyes, looking for any sign from the masked man that he would even consider reconsidering his plan.

His eyes were filled with a sorrow the likes of which she had never seen, even when he had spoken of his childhood.

"Vicomte," Erik's voice broke as he called the other man over to collect her. As she was pulled from him, Erik couldn't help but stare down at her in shock. _She kissed Erik_, he thought. The thought did not compute.

As she slipped out of the room, Christine looked back at Erik with tears in her eyes.

When he was almost certain that she was out of earshot, Erik cried, "Christine, I love you! I love you." He repeated the words again and again, his voice cracking and breaking more and more with each repetition.

Erik gave them longer than he had intended to escape the disaster he was about to create before turning his attention back to the kegs of gunpowder. _Your bloodlust is your death sentence_, he thought angrily as the cries of the angry mob descending into his realm reached his ears.

He fashioned a fuse of reasonable length— one that would allow him to arrange himself in a dignified position before being blown apart— and tidied up his home one last time.

He stopped in the doorway to Christine's room. Across the bedspread lay her wedding dress. The ring he had planned to give her weighed heavily in his jacket pocket. The pain in his heart was quite real when he tore himself away from what could have been.

_No, it would never have happened,_ he told himself, _it never would have worked._

He lit the fuse and wasted no time in returning to his own bedroom. The coffin lay open, inviting him to lie down in it one last time.

Just outside the door, he could hear evidence that the mob had finally located him. Even knowing that their vain foolishness would be their end couldn't lift his spirits, however. He slipped into the coffin and, with a little effort, pulled the lid shut.


	5. Seeing Raoul vs seeing the Phantom

"I know who you are," Christine said, tired of listening to him fumble for his words. "I recognized you the moment I first laid eyes upon you. You are the boy who went into the sea to fetch my scarf so long ago." Raoul's eyes widened in surprise.

"All this time I was certain you didn't recognize me."

"How could I forget the boy who dragged his governess to my home at every chance he got?" she asked with a coy grin.

"If you must journey to Perros, at least allow me to accompany you." Raoul's tone was polite, but his eyes were wild and pleading. Christine shook her head.

"I shall be quite all right on my own, thank you kindly monsieur le vicomte."

Nothing she had encountered in her nineteen years on earth could have prepared her for the sight of the man who belonged to that voice. All at once she was forced to realize that she hadn't been conversing with an angel at all but a man.

He stood far taller than she, and although his suit was impeccably tailored, it hung from his body as though he were a hanger. His legs were quite long and thin, much like his general silhouette, and his hands appeared comically large on his bony frame.

Were she not so awestruck, Christine might have felt pity for him.

As her eyes slowly swept upward, she realized that what she'd mistaken for the man's face was not a face at all but a white mask covering all but his lips and chin. The color of the mask was not far from the pale flesh of the man's chin and throat, and she could see how she'd mistaken it for skin.

As she looked into the dark holes cut so the man could see, two yellow eyes flashed open deep within. She jumped at the sight, throwing her arms up to defend herself should the need arise.

"Christine, do not be afraid." His voice was rich and smooth and so pleasing to the ear, but she could detect a note of fear behind his words. "I am your angel of music."

This man was indeed her angel, there was no mistaking his voice. A small part of her still clung to the hope that he had been sent by her father from heaven.

He held a white-gloved hand out to her. For a long moment she stared at the hand before hesitantly placing her own hand therein and allowing him to gently lead her on. The mirror closed behind her with a barely audible _click_, and the tunnel they were in was cast into darkness.


	6. The Thunderstorm

Though she knew it wasn't so, the thunder that roared overhead sounded as though it could be coming from directly outside her bedroom door. The sound of torrential rain outside could be heard echoing throughout the opera ghost's home and until it had begun to thunder, Christine Daae had found it to be soothing.

All afternoon and evening, Erik had stalked through the cavernous cluster of rooms that he called home, mumbling to himself and pulling out what little hair he had. Although it had been quite easy to keep out of his way and seemingly out of his thoughts, Christine was beginning to grow both worried and lonely.

From the moment she had woken to find herself in this place, she had known that the man who held her captive wasn't entirely there mentally. Now she was truly beginning to question whether she would ever see the light of day again. After all, she'd been there for days already.

At least she thought it had been days. Without a way to see outside at the surface and with no clock in her bedroom, she had no real way to gauge how much time had really passed.

The thunder grew louder, almost as though it was happening inside of her head. Christine thought she might go mad if it continued much longer.

She stood and quickly wrapped herself in the silken dressing gown that Erik had provided for her before lighting a candle and making for the door. _I cannot stay another minute here! _she decided, standing a little taller as she reached the door.

To her surprise, it opened easily. Had Erik forgotten to lock her in after she had retired for the evening?

As the door wheezed open the flame of her candle flickered and threatened to go out, and she quickly threw her free hand up to shield it from the draft.

Though the air was generally still and humid, Christine found there was an extra coolness to the air in the main of the home. The air felt fresher somehow.

As she took a tentative step out into the hallway, another crack of thunder caused her to jump and nearly drop the candle.

It was the quiet scream that escaped her lips that doomed her. If only the thunder didn't frighten her so. _No_, she told herself, _he still would've known. He always knows. _She hesitated when she felt his presence. She knew that if she swung the candle out to try and locate him, he would only step back, keeping to the shadows.

It wasn't a stretch to think how deadly such stealth could be.

"Christine?" His voice sounded small, almost woeful.

"I can't sleep," she replied after a moment. In the distance, she could hear the rain slowing. She hoped that it meant the storm would soon be over, but that was unlikely. It would be too easy.

"And what were you hoping to do about it?" This time when he spoke, he sounded more like the cool, collected man he generally pretended to be when conversing with her. There was still a strange tone to his voice, almost as though he were stifling a sob.

_Well, I can't bear it another minute down here, please take me back to the surface this minute!_ She imagined herself stomping her foot against the slightly damp stone floor to punctuate her demands. She already knew he wouldn't take her seriously.

"I want to go home," she said simply, exasperated beyond belief without even fully entering the conversation. Though she knew she would have to keep her emotions neutral regardless of his response, she could feel a sob working its way up her throat as she anticipated the worst.

The silence that followed her words was more brutal than anything she could've imagined him doing to her.

"What do you plan to do should Erik refuse?" She could almost hear the gears in his head turning. _If he wants a game, I'll give him a game_.

"What exactly do I have at my disposal, Erik?" she asked, gesturing to the darkness. In the darkness, just at the edge of the light from her candle, she saw a slight flicker of black. The use of his name had caused him to falter, just as she'd expected.

"Plenty," was all he said in reply. She sighed.

"Are you really expecting me to say, 'oh, I'll make a mad dash for the boat, somehow manage to row myself back to the other side of the lake, find my way through your labyrinth of tunnels, and escape?' Really, I would've thought that was what all your warnings when you first brought me here were for."

It was only then that another great clap of thunder caused them both to jump, momentarily forgetting about their conversation as the candle slipped through Christine's fingers.

The flame was extinguished long before the candle hit the floor. The two of them stood in the darkness, silently waiting.

"I think the rain _is_ letting up after all," Erik murmured. "Perhaps you can give sleep one more try before abandoning Erik down here."

It was nearly fully dark, save for a sliver of light from the lamps in Erik's bedroom. That sliver of light was enough to catch on the white mask the man wore. Christine was unsure if he realized she could see the faint outline of his mask. She knew he could see in the dark, but not quite how well.

"Erik—"

"No," he said flatly. There was something so terribly final about the way he said it. Christine felt tears welling in her eyes.

"You can't keep me here forever!" she said, fighting a losing battle to keep her voice from shaking with the disappointment she felt. Once again, her captor was silent. She was so desperately frustrated with his silence.

She closed her eyes to fight back the tears that threatened to loose themselves upon her cheeks. When she opened them again, she could no longer locate his mask in the darkness. _So he _was_ aware that I could see him_, she thought as she tried to mask her surprise at once again not knowing precisely where he was.

Icy fingers traced strange patterns across the flesh of her neck and she froze. _Raoul was right_, she thought, beginning to panic. _He is going to kill me._

She could feel his breath on her ear as he laughed tauntingly. "You're in no position to make such claims, Miss Daae." His words, as quietly as he spoke them, should have been lost to the cavernous room, yet Christine felt surrounded by his voice much as she had so long ago, when this man was her angel and teacher.

His long, slender fingers hesitated before wrapping around her neck. It was a strangely delicious torture, knowing that he could end her life without much effort. She forced herself to breathe again, knowing that any moment he could cut off her airway.

The echoing thunder finally began to fade as they stood there, each waiting for the other to make a move.

"You would risk damaging my voice in order to put your point across?" Christine asked after what had been an excruciating silence. Erik's grip on her throat tightened, but still only enough to be a threat, not enough to actually do any damage. She grinned defiantly as she received her answer.

"You should return to your room," Erik says after another long silence punctuate only by the distant roar of rainfall. "I should think you will find it sufficiently quiet to sleep now."

He held her there for a heartbeat longer before letting go and seemingly disappearing.

She felt her way back into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, fully expecting to hear the all too familiar click of the lock as she crossed the room to the bed.

The click she expected never came.


	7. DAMN YOU! YOU LITTLE PRYING PANDORA!

_Certainly he can hear me,_ she thought as she made her way across the parlor to where Erik sat at the organ. Every so often he would play a melody five or six times in a row, jot it down, and resume his near-silent staring at the pile of papers laid out before him before repeating the actions.

Now, however, he had been silent for nearly an hour. Even though Christine was petite and light on her feet, she knew he _had_ to be aware that she was there. He could hear nearly everything else, after all.

_There's no way I'm going to actually sneak up on him_, she thought. _He'll stop me long before my fingertips touch his mask._

But the reaction she was waiting for didn't happen. He was off in his own little world composing music he was certain would make Christine fall in love with him.

As he began to play again, Christine paused to watch as his fingers moved gracefully across the keys. The sound echoed throughout his entire home, surrounding her and enveloping her in a dream-like bliss from which she never wanted to escape.

But as abruptly as he had begun playing he stopped once more and scribbled furiously on the paper.

As he straightened his back and placed his hands on the keys again, Christine closed the gap between the two of them and raised her trembling hands on either side of his head.

His mask was smoother than she had expected and cool to the touch, much like his gloved hand had been the night previous. It came away from his face with less effort than she'd expected, too.

Erik had begun to play a melody that had been playing in his head since he had finally revealed himself to Christine some fifteen hours before when he felt strange pressure on his mask near his temples.

As the cool, damp cellar air reached the tender skin of his face, Erik let out an animal howl and threw his arms up to cover his face.

His actions came too late, he knew, as Christine's screams echoed through the labyrinth of tunnels below the opera house. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it was audible in the opera house itself.

Hot tears stung his eyes as he stood and turned to face the terrified girl. He lowered his hands, revealing the true horror of his face.

Christine cringed away from him, turning her head away and clenching her eyes tightly shut as Erik approached her. "Look!" he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Feast your eyes upon my accursed ugliness! Is this what you wanted to see? _Is this what you wanted to see?_"

By the time Christine finally opened her eyes and looked, the tears that had threatened Erik's eyes had dried. All she could see in his eyes now was fury, not that she could focus on those angry amber orbs.

The skin of his face, much like the skin of his hands, was stretched tight over his bones and tinged yellow. Even with all of what she'd heard while the dancers were warming up, she never expected him to honestly have no nose. A great black hole took up the middle of his face, where a nose should've been; where his mask had given the illusion of one.

She covered her mouth with both hands to stifle the scream she knew was coming. He looked like a monster, the kind that her father had described in many of the stories he'd told her as a child.

As she stared at him in horror, he fell to his knees before her and buried his face in the hem of her skirts.

"Oh Christine," he wailed. "Why? You couldn't even give poor Erik a chance." His words were barely recognizable through his sobs. Christine, whose shaking hands still held the mask, stared down at him in abject horror.


	8. That's no angel!

No sooner had she sunk into the chair just inside did someone knock on the door.

"I would prefer not to have visitors," she called. Her statement was only met with another, more urgent knock. She sighed and forced herself back to her feet. She opened the door only the tiniest of cracks and peered out to find a most unnervingly familiar face staring hopefully back at her.

"Miss Daae, I was hoping I could have a word," said the man who stood just outside her door. She shook her head.

"I'm afraid I'm quite exhausted from tonight's performance and would not make for a good conversation partner. If you'll excuse me." The moment her final sentence was out, she shut the door once more. The man, the vicomte de Chagny, knocked once more, but this time Christine was dedicated to ignoring him as she slumped back down into her chair. Her hands were shaking and cold.

In fact, she felt as though she were being lowered into icy water.

The room shook as a rich baritone filled the air, enveloping Christine in its warmth. Something about the words being sung soothed her, even if she couldn't understand them.

As the final note hung in the air, there was another, much quieter sound. Two tiny clicks in fast succession, coming from the direction of the long mirror that hung from the wall beside her wardrobe. She turned to look and found the mirror hanging open, not unlike a door.

Christine found herself drifting in a dream-like state toward the mirror to investigate. It wasn't the first time that her angel of music had visited her in her dressing room, but it was the first time anything within her dressing room moved or opened this way. At least, the first time to her knowledge.

"Angel?" she asked, unsure of whether she was even allowed to gaze upon what she was certain was the heavenly visage of an angel. She hesitated just before the mirror, her hand hovering inches from the near-complete blackness the mirror had revealed.

She inhaled sharply as she heard someone knocking on her door again. She took her attention away from the mirror for just a second and _click_, that almost imperceptible sound repeated itself. She glanced back to find the mirror flush against the wall, just as it had been when she'd first re-entered her dressing room.


	9. Another alternate ending

"Make your choice, Christine." The deformed man's voice was cold and flat in stark contrast with the grand, booming thunder it usually was. His amber eyes, which almost seemed to glow in the dim light, never left the singer's face as she looked back and forth between the two men.

"Erik, please—" The hesitation in her voice only served to further anger the deformed man, who yanked on the rope that held the vicomte up. The vicomte wheezed and struggled against the rope as he was lifted temporarily from the ground. "Stop it!"

"You try my patience." Christine had never seen him this way. Even when she'd pulled away his mask that first time and revealed the horrible beast hidden by that smooth porcelain he'd still managed to control his anger. Now she was afraid he might even lash out at her.

Her hands, heavy and shaking with fear, rubbed her throat protectively. She could still feel his icy fingers against her flesh. _If Raoul hadn't thrown that rock… _

She didn't want to think of what could've happened. The gasping, choking sounds escaping her fiancé's lips brought her back to reality. _I can't stall any longer_, she thought in dismay as she looked around the room for something to conceal in her hand. She didn't want to approach her former mentor unarmed, not with that terrible crazed look in his eyes.

Near Raoul's feet, something shimmery caught her eye. It was a piece of the mirror that Erik had broken. _I'm only going to have one chance at this._

Although she wasn't quite sure how, she managed to will herself forward, slowly walking across the wet stone floor to where Erik stood. His scowl turned hostile as she approached and she hesitated, turning and looking away from him.

For just a moment, her eyes met with Raoul's. The pain she saw made her heart hurt more than she could bear.

Just a few steps from Erik, she threw herself to the ground as though she had tripped. She landed sprawled at Raoul's feet, her outstretched hand near the shard of broken glass that had caught her eye.

For a few delicious seconds, Raoul could breathe and his feet were flat on the floor as Erik jerked forward to help Christine. She pulled herself to her knees quickly, concealing the glass in her skirt as she brushed herself off.

As she pushed herself to her feet, she realized how hard her hands were shaking. _I only have one chance at this,_ she thought, swallowing hard.

"I can't imagine," she said, fighting to keep her voice even as she forced herself to look at Erik. "I can't imagine the life that you've lived. To be alone, to feel so unloved…" They were toe to toe now, Christine looking up into Erik's disbelieving face as she wrapped her arms around him.

She clenched her hand around the broken piece of mirror so tightly that it cut into her palm. Wincing, she reached up and brushed her fingers against the twisted scar tissue of his cheek. He flinched and looked away, a pained expression twisting his features.

With trembling fingers, she reached for him once more. This time he allowed her hand to rest against his gnarled, rubbery skin. Slowly, he turned to look down at her once more.

Raoul hit the floor hard, gasping and coughing as he caught his breath. Christine silently begged him to look away as she shifted onto her toes, craning upward as far as she could.

Erik's shock made him go rigid before melting into putty in her hands. She moved her hand to the base of his neck and pulled him down as far as she could, bridging the gap between their lips.

He stiffened, his arms flailing out at his sides as he tried to pull himself away from her. Instead of letting him go, she held him tighter. As he finally gave in and slowly draped his arms around her, she took the piece of the broken mirror and stabbed him in the back as hard as she could.

Erik's eyes widened and he let out a strange sputtering sound as Christine pulled away from him, shoving him backward.

"Christine," he whimpered, "_why?_" He staggered back a few more steps before tripping over his own feet and crumpling into a heap on the floor. "Why?!" His voice was the shrill, pained cry of an animal.

The soprano didn't answer him, but turned and worked to untie her fiancé.

"Raoul? Raoul, speak to me," she begged.

"Oh, Christine!" he breathed as he threw his arms around her, barely giving her time to finish freeing him. The weight of his body against hers was what finally triggered the tears that had been threatening her eyes through the entire ordeal.

"Come, let's get out of here before he rights himself," Raoul said as he glared over her shoulder at the noseless man. His voice was hoarse and still a bit breathless, but Christine was relieved to see him already moving and speaking.

She helped him to his feet, and both of them were grateful to have the other to lean against.

As Raoul pushed the boat away from the shore, Christine looked back one last time to see Erik reaching out for her.


	10. Whooooah fail

Prologue

As night fell across Perros, Christine's father tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead.

"Tell me a story, Papa," she begged as he turned to leave the room. He stopped in the doorway, trying to think of what story he could tell his daughter.

"Hmmm, have I ever told you about the angel of music?" The little girl— just shy of six years old— shook her head vigorously, her golden curls bouncing back and forth against her face as she did.

"The angel of music visits those who are worthy of his time and talent when they are ready. He visited me as a young boy—"

"And that's why you're so good at the violin!" Christine offered cheerfully. Her father smiled and nodded.

"That's right. And someday when I am in heaven I will send the angel of music to you, Christine." He stood once more and turned to leave. "Now get some rest. The angel won't visit you if you don't get enough sleep."

She snuggled down under her blanket and shut her eyes tight, giggling all the while as her father snuffed out the oil lamp by the door.

Five years later, when Christine was ten years old, her father fell ill. Before he died, he asked for her. In a weak voice, he promised his inconsolable daughter once more that he would send her the angel of music, and for her not to be sad for him. He would be in heaven with her mother, where he belonged.

The last thing that he asked of her was, when she was ready and able to travel on her own, to go to the Opera Garnier and train to be a proper singer.

Eight years later, she finally arrived at the opera house.

Chapter One

There was something amiss, he was positively certain of it. The manager had been far too agreeable as of late.

Try as he might, however, he had been unable to ascertain precisely _what_ was being kept from him. Far beneath the opera house an incredibly well-dressed, tall, slender man sat at his desk in his parlour, drafting a letter to monsieur Moncharmin, the manager of the opera.

Scrawled across the page in large, crude letters not unlike those of a child was an a letter demanding to know what precisely was going on. He continued to say that, while he appreciated the sudden and complete submission to his will, he didn't trust it one bit. He concluded by alerting the man that he would expect a reply before rehearsals began for the next production.


	11. Chapter One!

**AN: The next few chapters will be sequential order and will be labeled as such. There is another author's note somewhere in the middle of an upcoming chapter. This was my most promising failed attempt.**

"Ladies and gentlemen," a short, stout man with a black horseshoe of hair and matching thin moustache said as the opera-goers took their seats. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! I'm afraid we've had a change in the program. La Carlotta will be unable to sing tonight. In her stead we shall hear from a promising young voice from the conservatory."

There was a general grumble of disapproval from the crowd, but one young man in particular perked up at the news. He was the vicomte de Chagny, a new patron of the opera. His brother, the comte, had arranged the whole deal.

"Can you believe they waited so long to tell us, Raoul?" his brother asked, nudging him with his elbow. "The nerve of these people! We came all this way!" The vicomte shook his head.

"No, this is good," he said excitedly. "This is what we're really paying for. Fresh talent! I'd rather hear an up-and-comer than the diva any day, Philippe."

The lamps dimmed before the comte could think of an appropriate response, and so they both turned their attention to the stage.

At first, it didn't quite hold Raoul's attention. The replacement wouldn't take the stage until halfway through the first act, and despite his proud protestations about the importance of theatre, that was really all he cared about. Fresh _talent._

The crowd applauded as the curtain fell and a short, svelte girl with white-blond hair came onstage nervously. Raoul turned all his attention to her, excited to finally hear her sing. She reminded him so much of a girl he once knew…

After a long pause, the girl opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice was like the trickling of a stream over a rocky waterfall, cool and clear and so familiar that it brought tears to the vicomte's eyes.

He hadn't felt so alive, so _excited_, in years. He'd seen the girl there before, but until he'd heard her sing that night he hadn't been sure it was her. Now he was absolutely certain.

_Christine. My dear Christine!_ He felt like his heart might pound right out of his chest as he raced backstage. _No time to waste!_

Though a few stage workers cast strange looks in his direction, nobody seemed to mind that their half-crazed patron was racing through the minimal space like a madman.

He spoke to no one until he reached a gaggle of ballet rats and a fork in the corridor. _Fool_, he thought, chastising himself, _you've left too much space between the two of you and now you've lost her_.

He stopped just short of the five girls who were splayed haphazardly across the corridor, stretching and practicing their form. It wasn't until he stopped moving that he realized quite how fast he had been moving. He found himself quite out of breath.

"Excuse me," he said, holding a hand out toward the girls. The girl nearest him, who appeared to be roughly Christine's age, turned to look at him.

She had dark olive skin and a mop of unruly black hair somehow forced into a tiny bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were a strange shade of amber that Raoul had never seen before. They almost appeared to glow in the dim lighting!

"Monsieur?" she asked. He realized that he was staring at her and quickly averted his gaze.

"Sorry, I… Have you seen a girl come through here recently? With long blond hair and a dark blue gown?" he stammered. The girl smirked.

"You mean Christine Daaé?" she asked matter-of-factly. Raoul turned to look at her once more and she broke into laughter, as did the other girls.

"So she has been through here?" Raoul couldn't hide the hope swelling in his voice as he spoke the words.

"Her dressing room is just down there, monsieur," the girl with the amber eyes said, her grin growing wider. "The last door."

Raoul looked down the long hallway and found it to be deserted, unlike the other areas backstage. He looked back down at the girls, who were smiling back up at him innocently.

"Are you certain?" he asked. "It doesn't look like anybody is down there."

"Nobody uses these other dressing rooms," another girl— who had bright orange hair and pale skin— said as she lazily stretched her legs. "Christine Daaé is the only one. She likes the solitude—"

"And it likes her!" the first girl said, roaring with laughter. "She sounds like a rusty hinge when she sings. Her caterwauling fills these corridors when she practices with her tutor."

As if on cue, Christine's voice echoed down the hall, but she wasn't singing. To Raoul, it sounded as though she were arguing with someone.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, gesturing toward the source of the noise. "You've been quite helpful."

"Not at all, monsieur le vicomte," replied the girl with the amber eyes. About halfway down the corridor, Raoul dared to steal a glance over his shoulder. The girl was staring at him with a strange, devious smile pasted on her face. Her eyes _were_ glowing, he was sure of it this time.

As he approached the dressing room, Christine fell silent. He heard movement from inside, but no further talking.

For a long moment, he hesitated with his hand just inches from the door. He wanted so badly to knock, but what would he say? What _could_ he say?

He was counting on her remembering him. He hadn't forgotten her, after all. The idea of the pretty blond girl from the opera _actually_ being his childhood crush had been bouncing through his brain since he'd first glimpsed her weeks ago.

There was no guarantee that her memory would serve, no certainty that she would recognize him. The navy had hardened him from the kindhearted, baby-faced boy she'd known so long ago. Not to mention the moustache. He sighed, lowering his hand as he turned to leave.

It was then that he heard it: the quiet whisper of a man's voice. He turned and stared intently at the door.

"Christine?" He raised his hand and knocked on the door three times. "Christine?" He grabbed the doorknob and turned, but it was no use. The door was locked.

"Go away," a deep, masculine voice boomed. It seemed to surround Raoul, and that frightened him. He spun madly, searching for the source of the voice. "Do not return."

"Christine? Whose is that voice?" He tried the doorknob once more, but it wouldn't budge. "Who is that in there with you? Christine!"

He heard a distinctive creaking followed by shuffling, fading footsteps, and then all he could hear was the hustle and bustle of dancers running about backstage.

He lifted his hand to knock once more, but the latch clicked and the door swung open. He stepped forward and pushed the door open further—

—Only to expose an empty room!

She stood in awe of the lake beneath the opera house. Never could she have conceived of something like it. The masked man, her Angel of Music, stood patiently upon a small, creaking dock. He held a lantern out to illuminate her path and he watched her expectantly.

Although he didn't rush her, Christine hurried down to where he stood. The man helped her into a tiny boat before affixing the lantern to its front and climbing aboard himself.

Though she yearned to ask him so many things, she found that she couldn't force a single sound from her throat. She couldn't tell if it was from fear or wonder.

As they moved across the lake, the boat gliding nearly silently across the dark water, another dock came into view. So much of the lake was shrouded in darkness that the dim light given off by the lantern at the front of the boat and the dim light from the lantern at the end of the dock were all that Christine could focus on.

He'd said it was a reward. When he'd spoken to her in the dressing room, he told her that he wanted to reward her for her debut performance, but he had refused to explain _how_. That was when the mirror had made that strange noise. That was only the second time she'd ever so much as glimpsed him.

In a daze, she had followed him, and now she found herself being helped out of the boat and led into a strange, dark entryway featuring a large, dark, ornately-carved wooden door. Her angel removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

It swung out as he opened it and gestured for her to go inside. "All shall be explained in due time," he promised. In the darkness, she could tell that there was something different about his face, but she couldn't quite make out what it was.

Walking through the door she felt like she had been transported back to her childhood home. The furniture was all simple and wooden, save for a large pipe organ built into the wall opposite the door.

"Do you like my home?" She jumped at the sound of her Angel's voice, having completely forgotten that he was even there as she stared, in awe, at the pipe organ.

"It's lovely," she said quickly, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. She turned to face him and was surprised to find that, despite the light cast from various lamps around the room, she still couldn't see his face. It was hidden by the brim of his hat and the long shadow it cast. "Angel?"

He bristled, stiffening noticeably at the name she called him. She cocked her head to the side, confused by his reaction. He was very still for what seemed like an eternity before he crossed the room and sat at the organ.

She waited until he patted the seat beside him to follow.

"Please, sit," he instructed. She was not one to refuse her Angel, so she obeyed quickly and sat beside him. Before she even had to ask, he shuffled over to give her more space.

Before she could say anything, he began playing. She gasped as the music took her over, enveloping her in a strange ecstasy she'd never quite felt before.

She was too enthralled with the music that her Angel played to notice the way he stared at her. As he continued to play, he made less and less of an attempt to hide the way he stared.

He was reluctant to finish the piece he was playing, but knew it would be better not to overwhelm her. As the last note hung in the air, Christine found that there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Angel… Truly that was the music of the heavens," she breathed.

"No, nothing so spectacular as that," replied the man who sat beside her. Christine opened her eyes and looked at him. For the first time she found she could see his face, or at least could see the strange mask he wore.

It made it difficult to read his emotions, not that she had ever been particularly good at reading his emotions when all he was to her was a disembodied voice.

"It's part of an opera I'm writing," he continued after an awkward pause.

"Then it _is_ the music of the heavens!" Christine beamed. The man frowned.

"Christine…" he sighed and stood up. "I'm afraid that you have been misled."

Her heart dropped and she could feel fear and panic clawing their way up her throat.

"What do you mean?" she asked.


	12. Chapter Two!

Raoul searched for Christine for hours that night, but his efforts were fruitless. As the clock struck midnight he finally trudged down out of the opera on the Rue Scribe side, where his brother's carriage awaited him.

He knew that when he arrived at home, one of two scenarios would play out. Either Philippe would be there in the parlour ready to chastise him for chasing shadows, or the house would be dark and he would find himself alone in silence.

He was relieved to discover that the latter was the truth as he exited the carriage. After traipsing all across the opera house he was far too tired to deal with being scolded like a child.

The vicomte made his way upstairs to his bedroom, pausing at the foot of the stairs for only a moment to drink in the silence.

After some wandering in the opera house, the general hustle and bustle had given way to silence as well, but it was a strange sort of silence. It seemed somehow hollow, dead even. And yet every so often it seemed the building would give a great, musty sigh.

He found it easy to fall asleep, but once asleep he was plagued by dreams that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

In his dreams he could see Christine in the distance. She was walking in a blue dress and singing an old nursery rhyme that hadn't crossed his mind in more than a decade. He kept running after her and running after her, but no matter how quickly he moved he couldn't close the gap between them.

Just before he woke up, a dark shadow passed between them, blocking Christine from his sight. A strange and terrible laugh echoed in his ears as he woke in a cold sweat to the sound of birds singing outside his window.

The first rays of sunshine were just beginning to filter through his window, casting eery shadows on the walls. It was early. Too early for Raoul to be awake, even if part of him wanted to leap from the bed immediately and go chasing after Christine once more. As he drifted back off to sleep, he could've sworn he saw a tall, skeletal man dressed all in black coming up at him.

"Christine, please do not be afraid," the man continued as she stood up and backed away. "I will never hurt you."

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice small and frightened.

"I am Erik. Not an angel, just a man. A man who has watched you from afar for some time."

"Why have you brought me here?" Christine's voice quivered with the fear she fought hard not to show on her face. The last thing she wanted was for this man, this liar who had pretended to be an angel, to see her weakness. "What are your intentions?"

The man seemed taken aback by the accusatory tone of her questions. He put up his black-gloved hands and shook his head.

"Please, forgive me, I meant nothing improper," he said. Christine was shocked to hear all eloquence dropped from the man's voice. He sounded like a gigantic toddler about to have a cry. She couldn't even begin to fathom what was going on. "From the first moment I saw you, I was smitten. You were so lovely and so kind, I—"

The man's words were cut off by a strange, wailing sob that seemed to come from his chest, not his mouth. It was a sound that Christine had only heard once before in her life, and it terrified her.

She threw her hands up to cover her ears and backed away, putting as much distance as she could between them. The man threw up his hands and fell to his knees.

"This is the opposite of what I wanted," he wailed, his words barely intelligible through the great, heaving sobs that wracked his bony frame. "I only wanted to show you my home. I thought it might be more comfortable than continuing our lessons in your dressing room."

"You lied to me," she managed to squeak. "How can I be certain that you aren't lying to me now?"

It was strange and horrifying to see this man— this stoic, skeletal being— blubbering like fool on the floor. She could not think of a single other man she had ever met in her life that would take to blubbering in this fashion.

Raoul woke again to the sound of his brother knocking on his door. Before he could utter a single word, the Comte threw open the door and strode to the foot of his little brother's bed.

"And just where were you until all hours of the night?" he demanded. "I waited up until nearly eleven-thirty for you."

"I got lost looking for Christine," Raoul said, yawning and stretching. "I'm not familiar with the backstage workings of the opera house just yet. It took me until midnight to find my way again."

"I find that terribly hard to believe," Philippe replied, crossing his arms and sighing. "You were chasing a ghost all night. How do you even know she's the girl you knew as a boy?"

"She _is_, Philippe."

"Are you so sure?"

The vicomte pulled the blanket over his head and groaned. "Is this really a discussion we have to have so early in the morning?"

"It's half past one in the afternoon."

"Is it really?" Raoul demanded, looking positively horrified as he peeked back out from under the blanket.

"No. It's only nearly ten now."

"That's still late." The vicomte kicked off his blanket and sat up. "You should have roused me."

"Consider it your punishment for being away all night."

Before Raoul could reply, the comte turned and left, leaving the door wide open behind him. Raoul rolled his eyes. _When's he gonna stop treating me like a child,_ he wondered as he changed his shirt and slicked back his hair with yesterday's water from the basin, _and why won't he admit he recognized her, too?_

He looked positively a mess, even with a fresh shirt and his hair combed back. After washing his face twice and meticulously grooming his moustache, the vicomte decided he looked about as good as he was going to for the day.

There was a plate of breakfast waiting for him downstairs, as well as a newspaper opened to a story about the opera the night previous. At the other end of the dining table sat one of his sisters, her nose buried in a book. She didn't even glance up at him as he entered, but that didn't surprise him.

What did surprise him, however, was that she was present at all. Both of his sisters were married and lived outside of Paris now. It was only Raoul, Philippe, and a handful of servants living in the huge dwelling now.

He sat and ate his breakfast in silence, knowing that to attempt to speak to either of his sisters would gain him nothing.

It wasn't until Philippe came into the room as Raoul paged through the newspaper that she looked up.

"You really should announce yourself when you arrive, Marie. You wouldn't have to wait as long to see me."

"I was quite enjoying spending quality time with our little brother," she replied, slipping the book she had been reading into her bag and standing. "I should like it if this conversation were to take place in private, however."

"Of course. Let us away to my study," Philippe said. Marie sashayed out of the dining room and down the hall, and the comte turned his attention to his brother.

"You stick around. I'll want to speak with you before this is all said and done."

"What did I do?" Raoul whined. Philippe shot him a look as he left the room, and Raoul found himself alone in silence once more.

He was inconsolable for hours. At first, Christine had stood and watched him have his tantrum. She even tried to piece together what he was saying as he babbled on and on begging for her forgiveness, but after hours of his caterwauling and beating his hands against the floor, she found she was growing weary.

Eventually she decided he wasn't a threat to her life, and she curled up on a large sofa in the the darkest corner of the room. Even though he never once looked back up at her through his entire tantrum, he feel silent as she curled up on the sofa, as if he understood her intentions then and didn't want to be a further bother to her.

She watched him curiously as she faded in and out of consciousness before finally falling asleep. At some point in his outburst, his hat had fallen off, revealing the dark brown wig and bright white mask the man wore, as well as glimpses of the papery, yellowed skin beneath.

_None of this makes any sense,_ she thought just before sleep took hold of her.

She dreamed more that night than she had in years; each dream was more vivid than the last.

They each started out the same: she was on stage singing to a full house, when suddenly the theater would go dark. In the first dream, that had been the end of it.

The second dream was the same, save for the addition of an eery laugh and the feel of a cold hand at her throat.

The third dream found her struggling against unseen assailants in the darkness.

When she woke she found herself in her dressing room, wrapped in her favorite dressing gown and draped with a cloak she had never seen before.

As she sat up the room seemed to spin and she noticed a strange throbbing in her head. _Did any of that actually happen?_ She couldn't be sure.


	13. Chapter Three!

His screams of rage echoed through the underbelly of the opera house, but not one single peep escaped his tunnels. _How can Erik be so foolish_, he thought miserably, _as to think that a pretty girl could really see him as a man? Erik should never have brought her down here!_

"Are you finished destroying your home?" Erik was so upset he hadn't even heard the other man enter his home. "What's brought on _this_ tantrum?"

"Leave me," Erik replied. "You're naught but a thorn in my side and I've no use for irritation today."

Of course, he already knew what the man's answer would be. There would be no convincing him to leave again until he had business to attend to once more.

In honesty, Erik could no longer remember quite what he had done to cause the daroga to give chase. The persian _was_ persistent, at least that much he knew.

"No really, Erik. I'm quite intrigued. This is your eighteenth tantrum just this week." The Persian man grinned, showing off the pearly teeth that perfectly complemented the dark olive tone of his skin. "What's happened to send you over the edge _this_ time?"

"It is none of your concern. Now go and leave me."

"You know I won't," the Persian replied.

"You try my patience, Yusuf."

"So you _do_ have the capacity to use my name," the Persian man said with mock-excitement.

Erik roared with frustration; the ferocity of his scream caused a strange, thunder-like echo that bounced around for nearly a minute after. "What do you want?"

"Oh you know me, Erik. I can't go more than a fortnight without witnessing one of your outbursts. They sustain me."

Erik glared at the man, his amber eyes glowing angrily from behind the safety of the mask. _At least she didn't see Erik as a monster,_ he thought, absentmindedly running his fingertips along the edge of the mask.

"It would be wise for you to refrain from abducting the little girls from the opera," Yusuf said, rolling his eyes at the melodramatic skeleton. "I watched the Opera's new patron search for her for hours last night. Poor fellow left looking quite defeated." Erik growled at this new information.

"New patron?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny."

"I suppose the new managers brought him on," Erik mused. The faintest trace of a grin played upon his lips. "I can be rather intimidating."

"Your ridiculous salary." Yusuf put his hands on his hips. "And what exactly is it that you _do_ in order to earn that salary?"

"I refrain from disrupting the normal operations of the opera house."

"Not exactly something that people generally get paid for."

"Think of it as an investment, then," Erik said, waving him off. The other man's presence and persistent questioning was giving him a headache. He wanted nothing more than to take a nap. He knew rest wouldn't come easy; it never had. Hell, it wouldn't come _at all _if Yusuf wouldn't leave him alone.

_Must I be tortured every moment of my miserable existence?_ The thought hurt in all its clarity. He couldn't apply his usual cool detachment to it, try as he might. It was something he already knew the answer to, something that had been drilled into his head from an early age by his mother and beaten into him by the man at the freak show.

"An investment?" prompted the Persian as he raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, an investment," Erik stammered as he forced his thoughts back on track. "My opera will gain them unimaginable profits. It is only fair that the Opera Garnier finance my toiling."

"I fail to see your logic. Perhaps because you have none."

"Would you just leave already?" the masked man snapped. "You are an unwelcome pest, and I have half a mind to exterminate you."

"I've said my piece and I will leave in peace," replied Yusuf. "Maintain a respectable distance from miss Daaé."

"I promise nothing."

By the time she was back to the dormitory in which she stayed, Christine had convinced herself that the hazy memories that plagued her from the night previous were nothing but fragments from a dream brought on by an excess of excitement.

She had a room which she shared with two dancers, both of whom were already out for the day by the time she entered. Although she wouldn't admit it outwardly, she was relieved to find them already gone. As much as she enjoyed their bubbly, vivacious personalities, she wasn't in the right mood for such cheer that morning.

She freshened up and brushed out her hair, knowing that she wouldn't have any lessons for the day, not after covering for the Lead Soprano.

_What on earth would make Carlotta bow out right before a show like that?_ She couldn't help but wonder if the diva had been arguing with the managers again. Rumors in the dormitory were that Carlotta's larger-than-life arrogance and stubborn nature had been what had finally driven off the previous manager.

She was nearly dressed when someone knocked on the door so lightly that she barely heard it.

"Is someone there?" she called as she pulled her hair up into a loose braid.

"Miss Daaé?" The voice that replied was at once so familiar and so foreign. Had she heard it the night before? She couldn't be certain.

"One moment please." She looked herself over in the mirror and adjusted her skirts one final time before walking over to the door.

When she opened it, she found herself face-to-chest with a tall, burly man with tawny hair and a thin moustache. His blue eyes twinkled with excitement as he looked down at her. There was something just so familiar about him, but she couldn't for the life of her place exactly what it was or who he was.

"Christine?" he asked. She nodded. "Do you remember me?"

She cocked her head and squinted at him, trying hard to place his face, but she was unable to do so. She shook her head. "I'm sorry sir, but should I remember you?"

The man looked positively heartbroken by her words. He slumped forward, forgoing proper posture, and sighed deeply. Christine was about to excuse herself when he suddenly perked back up.

"One summer, when you were a young girl, you were at the beach and your scarf was caught up in the wind and blown out to the sea. I was the boy who dove in after it."

Her eyes widened as she finally recognized him. "Raoul?" she asked nervously. His face was taken by a wide grin as he nodded. "Oh, Raoul! It's been so long!" She couldn't contain her excitement and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

After a moment of shock, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. He couldn't believe that he had finally found her. Although he had very much wanted to see her again last night, it was morning and he could hold her in his arms.

After more than a year away with the navy, he was astonished at how soft she was against him. His life at sea had given him many opportunities to gain strength and build muscle mass, not to mention countless bruises and a broken arm. Christine, he found, was much like a pillow.

The realization of how soft and therefore fragile she was caused him to tense up. She took this as a signal to let go, and she stepped back. "If you'll allow me a moment to fetch my cloak, I'll join you for a walk?"

Raoul nodded and watched as she crossed the room to a small closet, from which she withdrew a long, dark crimson cloak that went nicely with the deep blue of her dress.

"I could hardly recognize you, my how you've grown!" she quipped as she joined him in the hall.

"And you!" Raoul could hardly find words to begin to describe the beauty that stood before him. "Just look at you! Christine, you've grown more beautiful than I ever could have guessed."

"What brings you to the Opera Garnier?" she asked as they slowly began to meander out of the dormitories and into the opera proper.

"Why, I'm the new patron, with help from my brother."

"What?"

"The new managers have me on retainer for financial services and I take a piece of what the opera makes each night."

"New managers?" She felt a strange surge of adrenaline followed by an overwhelming dizziness. _This can't be_, she thought, _I was only starting to be featured._

"You've nothing to be worried about," Raoul assured her when he noticed how sickly pale she had gotten. "I know they were in the audience last night just as my brother and I were. If they were as awestruck by your voice's beauty as I was, I wouldn't be shocked if this season is Carlotta's last as Lead Soprano."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Christine said, shaking her head sadly.

"Come now Christine, what is the matter? Hasn't it always been your dream to sing in front of a crowd of adoring fans?"

"It would take far too long to explain."

"We have all the time you need," the vicomte said, stopping and turning to face her. "Come, I want you to meet my brother. Philippe doesn't believe you exist."

"But Raoul—"

"We'll dine out. It's a lovely, sunny day out today."

Christine sighed and resigned herself to doing what Mr. Pushy wanted her to do.

Deep beneath the opera house, rather than lying down to resolve the pounding headache that was now threatening what few sane thoughts he might have had floating through his brain, Erik was deeply involved with writing letters. Countless letters. So many letters, in fact, that his hand began to cramp and ache as he scrawled the last one.

Two letters were addressed to the former manager of the opera house, three to the new managers, one to the vicomte, and one to Carlotta. In his forced, childish scrawl he detailed precisely what fools the former manager and new managers had been in not informing their resident ghost of a change in leadership. His note to Carlotta was the shortest and most passive aggressive, suggesting she take singing lessons to refresh her memory as to what music _should_ sound like.

He sealed the letters and addressed them in the fanciest script he could muster, which looked even clunkier than his normal scrawl.

Once he was certain that he had locked or blocked off the other entrances to his home— the daroga would not catch him by surprise again— he hurried up to Box 5, where he would leave the letters for his box-keeper, Madame Giry, to deliver.

It was always best if he could keep to the shadows and remain unseen. It was a mystery even to him as to why he had thought to reveal himself to Christine. Sure, he'd been giving her voice lessons for nearly the full year she had been training at the opera, but he knew far better than to go revealing himself to every pretty girl he saw.

He stole back down to his home by way of Christine's dressing room, where he retrieved the cloak he'd left with her the night previous. He hoped that she could forget what she'd seen. He hoped that she would attribute it to being overly excited after performing in front of such a big crowd.

But above all, he hoped that he would have the strength to stay away from her until he could be certain that she wasn't going to think he was a predator.


	14. Chapter Four!

For the first time in the nearly three years since her father had passed on, Christine felt truly happy as she dined at a small cafe with Raoul and Philippe. The comte, despite Raoul's warnings, was a genial man who treated her as an equal, even if he did make some rather passive-aggressive remarks about her upbringing.

It was good to have a piece of her past back in her life; a real, tangible representation of her childhood. It felt so long ago that they had been children together. Her father had still been alive and healthy the last time the two had seen each other, but he had only been a year off from death.

"Well, I must confess," Philippe announced as he finished the last of his dessert and let his fork fall across his plate, "I am glad to see that you are, in fact, a real girl. When Raoul first began bragging about you when he was still with his governess, we all assumed you were imaginary. The governess wouldn't disclose anything about where the two of them went every day."

"As I instructed," Raoul said. "You never would've allowed me to mix with an artist's daughter."

"Come now, Raoul, don't be ridiculous," Philippe replied as he sipped his wine. "I never would've kept you from associating with someone who brought you such happiness as the Daaé family."

"My father loved spending time playing his violin for us and telling us stories. I know he thought of Raoul as the son he never had. It was unfortunate that, when he passed, I didn't have a way to contact you. I'm sure he would've liked to have seen you once more before his death."

"Your father was like a father to me," Raoul agreed, "he was kind and taught me the proper way to speak to a lady."

"Oh really?" Christine asked, raising an eyebrow. She took special delight in the deep crimson that spread across the big, burly man's cheeks. He truly was still that sensitive, sweet boy she'd met in her younger years.

"Well, I mean…" Raoul coughed into his napkin and looked down at his lap.

"Just like his brother," Philippe interjected, slapping his brother's back heartily, "poor fool gets tongue-tied around pretty ladies. The young lady I am to marry finds it endearing." The vicomte managed a nervous chuckle as his brother winked at Christine.

Christine forced a chuckle and looked away from the comte. Seeing him purposely embarrassing his brother over a bit of blushing rubbed her the wrong way.

"Listen, this has been lovely, but I really should be getting back to the opera house. I should be there for rehearsals this afternoon."

"Are you sure you must go?" Raoul asked, reaching out and taking her hand as she stood up. She stopped and looked at his hand for a moment before meeting his eyes once more. She sighed, but smiled.

"Well, you know exactly where to find me now," she said, coyly swinging her arm. "I wouldn't be against seeing you again. Soon." With that, she turned away and flounced off. The sudden movement loosened Raoul's grip and allowed her to break free.

She made the walk back to the opera house on her own, hood up and eyes cast downward in an effort to avoid drawing attention to herself. She knew that Carlotta would be back now, that she wouldn't be necessary at this rehearsal anyway, but with the way the comte had creeped her out she would've been glad for any excuse to get away.

As she neared the opera house on Rue Scribe, she got the distinct feeling that she was being followed. Although the street was fairly crowded with people going about their daily business, she just _knew_ that someone was following her.

Without thinking, she turned down the next street she passed and quickened her pace. Of course, rather than being another wide, bustling street teeming with activity, it was a narrow, dark, dirty alleyway. As she hurried along, she could hear the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching her from behind.

It was late in the afternoon and, rather than sit and sulk until dusk, Erik decided to take a walk through the long corridors beneath the opera house. It _had_ been a while since he'd last checked his traps after all, and he wasn't exactly the best at detecting the distinctive smell of the dead.

He didn't mind that he couldn't smell. Certain aromas and odors were still detectable, sure, but for the most part the world was devoid of smell for him. It had made the bulk of his stay in Persia far more survivable that he hadn't smelled the scent of the bodies that rotted all around him in that cell.

As he walked along at a brisk pace— no reason to make the walk longer than it needed to be, after all— a strange and terrifying sound reached his ears. He'd barely passed the trap nearest his door when he heard the sound of a woman screaming— and the screams sounded familiar. _Too_ familiar.

_Christine_. His eyes widened as he realized, in horror, that something was terribly wrong. This was not a squeal of delight.

In more than five years, Erik had seen no reason to run. The various boobytraps he had constructed when he first took up residence beneath the Opera Garnier had successfully stopped all but two people— aside from him, of course— from reaching his home. One of those people was Yusuf.

Now, however, his legs and his lungs were on fire as he ran desperately toward the noise. _Don't let me be too late,_ he begged of no one in particular. The time had long since passed that he still believed in any semblance of a god.

There was a sickening crack followed by a silence that caused Erik to see red. His vision pulsed red, making it difficult for him to see his way to the hidden exit. Combined with the blindingly bright late-afternoon sunlight of the outside world, Erik had to navigate his way to the commotion based purely on what he heard.

When his leather-gloved fist connected with something hard and dully pointed, he knew he'd found his mark.

"What the—" The man didn't have enough time to finish his thought as Erik took him by the shirt collar and threw him against the wall.

"You have exactly two sentences to tell me what, _precisely_, your plans are with this girl," Erik hissed at the man. As his eyes adjusted to the daylight and the man's face came into view, the first thing he saw was the fear in his eyes. The second was the pure, unadulterated hatred that hid behind that fear.

One of his hands slipped to the man's neck, where it tightened just enough to be incredibly uncomfortable as he glanced back at Christine. He immediately wished he hadn't.

His grip grew tighter without him having to think about it, and the man's frightened flailing became more pronounced. At first he'd been too stunned by the sucker punch that the tall, skeletal man had delivered to his jaw to even think of fighting back.

Now the ever-slowing supply of oxygen to his lungs and his brain was awakening in him a will to live. It was an exercise in futility however, as he soon discovered when the masked man's gaze returned to him. There was fire in those strange, glowing amber eyes of his.

"Tick tock, tick tock," Erik said coolly, "what were your intentions with Christine?"

"I—" The man made an odd squelching sound as Erik tightened his grip even further.

"You think a girl wandering alone is invitation to touch her? To _hurt_ her?" The words came as a low growl that stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He could see the man clearly now. He was hardly a man at all, this mere child at the end of his arm. A sandy-blond mop of curls adorned his head, framing a squat, round face with thin, pale lips. His eyes were large and blue— with increasing petechial hemorrhaging in the whites— and they were stunning against the deep tan of his skin.

As badly as he wanted to kill this boy, he knew had to help Christine. She wasn't moving. He wasn't even sure that he had seen her draw a breath since coming to the surface.

_I could not bear it if she were to die_, he thought frantically, pleadingly, _please, please hold on Christine. I will never allow another bad thing to happen to you again._

Within seconds, his hand flew from the boy's throat and was replaced by a long, thin length of catgut fashioned into a noose. He pulled the rope taut and yanked the boy forward, making sure to keep the rope from going slack as he scrambled across the stone street and landed on his knees at Christine's side.

"She lives," he breathed, relieved. Though there was blood all down the front of her dress and pooling around her head like a strange, sticky halo, her chest still rose and sank with little effort. There was a slight wheeze to her inhale, but it wasn't so much to cause him to panic. The odd way her leg was bent was more worrisome, however.

Behind him, the boy who had attacked Christine struggled against the catgut and whined in pain and fear. Erik forcefully yanked the rope and took delight in the pained grunt as the boy hit the ground.

Taking care to be as gentle as he could, he scooped Christine up and began to carry her. It wasn't the easiest of tasks, but with the adrenaline pumping through his thin frame and the promise of torture for her assailant, Erik pressed on.

Once safely back to his home, he gleefully dropped the blond boy into his torture chamber for later before carefully placing Christine on the bed in the room he'd been preparing for a companion. First he would tend to her wounds, and then he would take care of her attacker.

He relished in the anticipation of torturing someone who thought harming his Christine was a good idea.

Raoul couldn't understand it. He'd been up and out of his seat just after Christine, but before he could get to her she had disappeared into the crowd. Sighing, he returned to his seat and flopped down, frustrated and temporarily defeated.

"I can see why you spent so much time with her and her father," Philippe said quietly after a few moments had passed. Raoul raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at him.

"Oh?" he prompted.

"She's quite lovely. And she seemed quite smitten with you." Raoul couldn't help but blush. The very idea.

"Oh I'm sure she's not," Raoul replied, "that's how she always acted when we were younger. With everyone." Philippe shrugged, but the look he cast upon his brother was one that said 'sure, Jan.'


	15. Chapter Five!

The last thing she remembered was being shoved to the ground and pain that made her ears ring. So when she woke to find herself tucked into a bed in a nightgown that wasn't her own, naturally she had a few questions. The most pressing being _where am I?_

She sat up fast— _too_ fast— and found the room spinning before her. She groaned and brought her hands to her head in an effort to quiet the sudden, deafening pounding in her temples.

_What happened to me, _she wondered, _did Raoul—? _The thought was cut off abruptly by the creak of a door swinging open. She froze, her heart racing.

"You're awake!" It most certainly wasn't Raoul, but she did recognize the voice she heard. It was like silk on her ears, a deep baritone with the slightest dreamy quality to it so that she wasn't entirely certain she was actually hearing someone.

She turned to look for the source of the voice and found herself looking at an impossibly tall, impossibly well-dressed man wearing a shining white mask that obscured all but his mouth and chin.

She gasped, jumping and then cringing at the pain that nearly blinded her from the movement.

"Sorry," the man said in an apologetic, soothing tone, "I didn't mean to startle you. I've been caring for you for two days now."

**[Author's Note: About halfway through chapter four I decided to ditch that first kidnapping. None of that happened. None of it. Remember: This is a rough draft. A lot of it won't make sense.]**

"Two days?" Christine asked, eyes widening at the thought. _I've been missing for two days! Raoul must be worried sick!_

"I have already sent word to the managers of the opera house."

Christine's blood ran cold.

"How did you…?"

"I am often in the audience of the Opera Garnier. I sit in Box Five. I've seen you onstage before."

_Well_, she thought, _it's definitely plausible._ She winced as the pain in her head grew more severe. She whimpered in pain.

"Lie back," the man told her, "I will bring you something for the pain. I know you've no reason to trust me, but… I only want to help you."

She did as she was told and was amazed at how much it helped to simply lie back. Before the man came back into the room, she pulled the blanket up to her armpits, making sure that no part of the curve of her chest would be visible through the fluffy, down-filled quilts that adorned the bed.

She wanted to trust him. Something about him was so familiar that it felt _wrong_ not to trust him, but he was still a man that she had never seen before and she was still only wearing a nightgown that was not her own and presumably underclothes of similar origin. She couldn't help but shudder at the idea of a strange man seeing her in such a state of undress.

He returned quickly carrying a tray with tea and a plate of sliced fruit and bread. "I think it would be best that you eat something," he said. "You've been through a lot."

"What happened to me?" she asked as he arranged the tray on her lap while avoiding touching her at all costs. Once he was certain that the tray was secure, he hovered at her side nervously for a few moments before sinking into a large, velvet-lined armchair that sat beside the bed. It stood out like a sore thumb, as the rest of the bedroom seemed to be decorated in lighter colors.

"I came across a man attacking you with intent to do something most foul. By the time I reached you, you were already unconscious and bleeding quite profusely. I dispatched with the rat who had harmed you and carried you to my home so I could stitch you up and nurse you back to health."

She was surprised at how quickly he answered. He was so succinct and to the point that she saw no reason not to believe him.

"Well, thank you," she said quietly. "I am sure things would not have come out well for me were you not nearby."

"No, I suppose not." They sat in silence for a few moments as Christine examined the tray he'd brought for her. "Eat. Please. You've got a lot of healing to do and you'll need your strength."

She nodded and brought a small bite of fruit to her lips. It shocked her at how hungry she was upon swallowing that first bite. It was all she could do to keep herself from shoveling the entire plate into her mouth at once. Even as she finished off the fruit she found that her stomach was growling.

"Oh my," she put her hand to her mouth. "I didn't mean to eat that so quickly— how rude of me."

The man shook his head. "If you would like, I can fetch you more food once we're certain you'll be able to keep it down. Drink your tea, it'll help with the pain."

"What have you done to it that it'll help with my pain?" she asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Nothing malicious," the man said defensively, throwing up his hands. "I simply added a bit of morphine."

"Why do you have morphine? Are you a doctor?"

The man was silent. Christine brought the tea to her lips and took a sip. It was very bitter, but drinkable in small sips.

"Thank you," she said after a long silence. "I suppose without your help I wouldn't—" It was a train of thought she didn't particularly want to finish. The subject of her own mortality was one she had yet to come to terms with after witnessing the life slowly leave her father just a few short years earlier.

"I find men who would attack women deplorable," the man said matter-of-factly. "The one who attacked you will not do it again. I have seen to that."

The vaguely threatening nature of his words caused her to tense up, but that didn't last for long. Her eyelids were beginning to feel rather heavy and everything she touched seemed to be incredibly fuzzy and pleasant. The man stood.

"You should rest," he said as he took the tray from her lap and set it on the table on the other side of the bed. "I'll leave the tea here for you."

As he turned to leave the room, Christine called out to him.

"Might I ask you a question before you go?" He stopped and turned to face her.

"Of course."

"What is your name? So that I can properly thank you." She didn't know why she hastily added the explanation after her question, but it felt important. The man stood and stared at her for a moment before replying.

"You may call me Erik."

Christine smiled. "Thank you, Erik."

Five days. Christine had been gone for five days, and Raoul was ready to eat his own foot he was so anxious for her return. The circumstances of her leaving were so strange that he couldn't understand it. He wanted desperately to ask _her_— not trust a series of silly, vaguely threatening notes that were drafted in a child's clumsy scrawl— what was going on.

_Why did she run from me?_ There was nothing he wanted more than the answer to that question.

"Do not fear for miss Christine Daaé," he re-read the note that had been delivered to him by the box-keeper for a private box that he had been informed was never sold. "She is safe with the opera's most loyal patron, and within a fortnight shall return. You would be wise, when she has returned, to keep in mind that she is spoken for."

The note was unsigned, and when he had asked the managers about the most loyal patron they had merely exchanged confused looks and apologized. Nobody that he thought to ask offered any information about this man who wrote like a child, even as they received their own notes from him.

With nothing to do but wait, he was beginning to feel a bit disheartened.

"Oh Christine," he sighed to the night sky, "where are you?"

He knew that he would not be able to keep her there forever. Soon she would be well again and he would have to return her to the surface. Soon he would be alone again.

Of course, Yusuf would still annoy him to no end. There would still be the managers and performers to keep in line, that would always be true. But once Christine could leave, he knew he wouldn't have her company like this again. There would never again be this closeness between them, no matter how hard he hoped and dreamed.

She was healing nicely, although her leg still caused her quite a bit of pain. As far as he could tell, it wasn't broken. She could still move it, and it could hold weight, but not enough for her to walk on it just yet.

It was embarrassing, so embarrassing the way his heart raced when she wrapped her arm around his waist and clung to him as he helped her from the bed to the water closet or to the parlour.

Now she was sleeping. It was nearing midnight and he knew that he should be sleeping as well, but he found it impossible. Sleep taunted him, danced seductively before his eyes, but wouldn't come to him.

On any other night, he would have simply continued to work on his opera and banged away on his organ until he passed out across the keys. With Christine in the next room, he found insomnia far less manageable. Being quiet was not his forte, not when he wasn't intending to sneak up on someone and strangle them.

It was only then that he remembered the man he'd dropped in his torture chamber. Six days had passed. He was amazed that he'd managed to focus solely on nursing Christine back to health for so long that he'd forget to pass judgment on the man who tried to take her from him.

He only hoped that the man hadn't taken his own life and denied Erik the revenge he was so bent on exacting.

The hopeful, if weak, shouts as Erik approached the room gave him immense pleasure.

"Help me!" the man cried, his voice hoarse from dehydration and screaming. As he unlocked the door, Erik did have to marvel at the fact that the man was still on his feet. How he'd managed to survive so long without succumbing to dehydration or giving up and hanging himself, the masked man didn't know, but he was mildly impressed.

"No," the man begged weakly, backing away as Erik strode confidently into the room. He set his lantern on the floor and closed the door. "Please, just let me go—"

"Is that what Christine said to you?" Erik asked, anger flashing in his eyes. His voice remained cool and level; emotionless. The man shook his head.

"I didn't mean— I'll never do it again—" The man's breathing was shallow and labored, and it was obvious to Erik that he was truly struggling to get words out. He knew he'd have to act fast if he wanted to enjoy watching the life leave the man's eyes.

He stepped forward and took the loosely-tied noose that hung from the ceiling at the center of the room. He pulled it down with ease as the man backed into the other wall, pressing himself back as hard as he could in an attempt to get away.

Two long strides had Erik beside the man. One swift motion had the rope around the man's neck.

Although weak, the man's scratching and flailing pleased Erik. It was evidence of a job well done, evidence of the terror with which the man's life ended. Even in his weakened state, the man took a good long while to die.

Once the life had gone from the man's eyes, Erik removed the rope from his neck and allowed the corpse to drop to the floor.

He retrieved his lantern and left the room, locking the door behind him. He would deal with the corpse in the morning. For now, he felt nearly satisfied enough to sleep.


	16. Chapter Six!

Christine still couldn't believe her luck. Had things gone any other way, she might be dead. Instead she grew stronger every day and soon would be able to walk unaided once more, and she had Erik to thank for that.

It seemed that her initial skepticism of his intentions toward her had been misplaced entirely. For the week that she'd been in his company he'd never been anything but a gentleman with her, if a little secretive.

Considering the circumstances, she couldn't quite expect him to tell her every little detail of what he did when he left or why he never removed his mask. Truly that was the only mystery that she still cared about beyond precisely _where_ Erik lived. There were no windows in the entirety of his home and she could not hear the sounds of birds or people beyond the walls.

At times she was certain she could hear Carlotta's singing, but she knew that was impossible. It had to be her imagination playing tricks on her. She was beginning to feel rather homesick, after all. As little as it was, the dormitory was home, and would continue to be home until she married or had enough money to purchase her own little flat.

She was nearly finished brushing her hair by the time that Erik came to help her dress and face the day.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked as he helped her to her feet. She smiled as he lifted his arm for her to wrap her arm around his waist, and the smile grew wider as she noticed that the strange way he'd tensed up other times she'd depended on him this way was absent this time.

Something had changed about him, something she hadn't even noticed needed changing. There was a strange element of comfort to how he carried himself, almost as though he were comfortable with himself for the first time in years. Even the way his hand rested on her shoulder was different, friendlier, almost.

"My head feels much better," she said as he led her to the dining room. It was a longer walk than she really was ready for at such an early hour, but her stomach hadn't ceased its growling in all the time she'd been awake. "My knee is far more painful than it has been in days, however."

"I will try not to make you move too much, then," Erik said as he helped her into her chair. His dining room was furnished with dark wood and lots of black, much the same as every other room she'd seen in his house save for the one she slept in. It was a lovely aesthetic, she was certain, but she couldn't find it in herself to like it. It was far too dreary for her taste.

Still, she wouldn't complain. He fixed her the loveliest meals and provided wonderful companionship, she was far from being in a position to complain about his decorating choices.

This morning, breakfast consisted of ham, grapes, and buttered bread. Simple, indeed, but quite delicious.

"I hope I am not overstepping my bounds," Erik said shortly after taking his seat across the table from her. She looked at him expectantly. "But I was wondering… Your voice is lovely, I was wondering if, after breakfast, you might sing for me?"

Christine's eyes widened in surprise and she nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! I would love to sing for you, Erik." Behind his mask, his amber eyes sparkled with anticipation.

"You're sure it's not too much to ask?" he asked. She shook her head.

"After all you've done for me Erik, really you could ask for so much more and I would oblige."

Was he blushing? His mask covered too much of his face for her to get a good enough look to be certain. He'd gone quite stiff and was staring down at his plate as though it held the answers to every question he'd ever dared wonder. _Had he really expected me to say no?_

She would be lying to say that the question hadn't taken her by surprise. She wasn't featured often, only when La Carlotta fell ill or went on holiday. The very idea that someone had heard enough of her to find her voice _lovely_…

"What would you have me sing?" she asked.

"Oh, anything," Erik stammered. "I've got quite the selection of music to choose from in the parlour, by my organ. You can choose whatever you like."

Her eagerness to please him was so strange and startling that it made him physically uncomfortable. It felt positively sinful to ask an angel to sing for a lowly demon, yet she hadn't even given a second thought to his question.

How dreadfully unhappy he would be when she returned to the surface.

He found that his appetite was quite thoroughly deadened by the guilt he already felt for making her sing for him. _Oh, how differently she would see me if she knew the monster that exists beneath this mask! Poor, unhappy Erik, doomed to a life in darkness_.

She had asked about it, on her fourth night in his company. She'd reached up to straighten his collar and he'd flinched and brought his hand up to hold his mask in place out of instinct. He hadn't known how to answer then.

He still didn't know a way to answer her without frightening her away. The mystery was obviously a point of interest for her, and he found her staring at the mask quite often. Each time he caught her, of course, she would look away and blush.

Like now. He could feel her staring at him.

"Has it occurred to you that what lies beneath my mask may not be something you particularly want to see?" he asked with a sigh. He hadn't looked up from his plate, but he knew that she was embarrassed having been caught staring yet again.

"Why would you say that?"

"Why do you think a man would hide his face from the world? Because he's just too ruggedly handsome?" he couldn't help but let his bitterness shine through as sarcasm. _If only that were my problem_, he thought miserably.

"I… I hadn't given it much thought," she replied quietly. He hadn't meant to snap at her. Or maybe he _had_. He couldn't be sure. The last thing he'd ever wanted was to upset her, and now he clearly had.

"It's impolite to stare," he said.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to stare."

She ate the rest of her meal in silence while Erik stole careful glances up at her. Oh, how he wished he could be the kind of man that Christine deserved!


	17. Chapter Seven!

"Erik?" Christine called. She was surprised at how the name echoed through his home. It felt strangely empty. "Erik, are you there?"

She was greeted by nothing but silence. _Did he mention something about leaving?_ She couldn't remember what had been said before Erik had given her some privacy for a nap, but she was pretty sure that he hadn't mentioned going out.

As she yawned and stretched, she casually glanced at the bedside table for a note. There was none.

"Erik?" she called again. _Of course, and here I am with nothing to do, _she thought with a sigh. Her knee still ached if she tried to put too much weight on it, and she wasn't entirely sure that she could walk on her own without injuring herself.

She flopped back across the bed and looked at the door, trying to make Erik appear there with her mind. Naturally, it didn't work. She resigned herself to waiting for him, even tried to fall back asleep, but no such luck. She found herself staring at the ceiling in the dim light cast by the oil lamp that sat on the vanity across the room.

When her calls continued to go unanswered, she decided that she would have to try and move herself. She wasn't tired enough to sleep any longer and she was growing uncomfortable remaining on the bed.

She stretched her legs as she swung them over the side of the bed and let her feet hit the floor. _Odd_, she thought as she leaned over, _my shoes are missing_. It wouldn't have been a problem if the floor wasn't made of stone that felt as though it had never known warmth. She wondered where Erik had hidden them. More than that, she wondered _why_ Erik had hidden them.

The icy stone floor sent chills through her body. For a moment, she considered slipping out of her clothes and under the covers and trying harder at the sleep thing, but she shook her head at the idea.

She firmly gripped the bedside table with both hands and pulled herself to her feet. Though her knee throbbed angrily at the sudden movement, and protested even more painfully as she fixed her clothing and refastened her corset.

_Okay_, she told herself as she took a deep breath, _you can do this, Christine. It's just thirty steps from here to the comfortable leather chair in the parlour. _

It was the second time in a week that Erik found himself disposing of a body. This one, however, was not a casualty of anything Erik had done. He'd found the stagehand— a young boy he'd seen in passing before, no more than sixteen years of age— at the bottom of a long spiral staircase, his neck broken.

Had the body been found anywhere else, Erik likely would've left it where it was. But the spiral staircase was one that only a select few knew about on purpose. It led right to the corridor that ran in front of his torture chamber. The boy had no business being anywhere near that particular staircase, nor did any search party that would likely come looking for the boy eventually.

No, the body had to be disposed of. Erik almost felt bad for the boy, and it had been a long time since he'd found it in him to feel bad for anyone who reminded him of himself. Once upon a time, he could almost see himself as this boy. Almost.

Like the man he'd taken great pleasure in killing, the boy's body was going to the catacombs where it could rot for eternity. It wasn't a journey he had particularly wanted to make a second time while he was still trying to enjoy Christine's company, but it had to be done. The boy couldn't be found in his realm.

The death was fresh; the boy's body was still fairly warm as Erik loaded it into a wheelbarrow.

He could almost hear Yusuf's voice in his ears, chastising him for not keeping his tracks covered better as he adjusted the body so it would shift as little as possible as he moved it.

Before he moved the body, he mopped up the blood as best he could with the supplies he kept to keep his torture chamber as menacing as possible. As he pushed the wheelbarrow along, he vowed to go over it better when he returned.

His tunnels connected to the catacombs and the connection was fairly close to his home, but he knew that dumping the body so close would be a disaster waiting to happen.

_One foot in front of the other_, _just keep moving_. Christine was concentrating so hard on not falling over that she was actually giving herself a headache. It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to get from the bed to the parlour, and the only real good that had come from it was that her back no longer felt as stiff and sore as it had been getting.

"Erik?" she asked, but received no reply.

It was strange to be alone in his home. The man had waited upon her every beck and call. He'd sat up with her and told her stories of the far east when she couldn't sleep and he wouldn't offer any morphine to help. When the pain had been particularly bad, he'd played his violin for her and all her cares would melt away.

She wished she knew the layout of his home a bit better; she'd only ever seen four rooms, and none of them were interconnected. There was a long hallway on the other end of the parlour, and the third door on the right was the dining room. One of the rooms in between was Erik's bedroom, and at least one of the doors in that hallway was a water closet, but she was unsure where most of them led.

For a fleeting moment, she considered being naughty and exploring his home while he was out, but her knee jabbed at her painfully and she flung herself across the remaining space between her and the sofa.

_How strange that he'd leave without telling me_, she thought again. She considered the possibility that he hadn't _wanted _to leave.

Then she considered the possibility that he _hadn't_ left. That he was still there, in his home, but unable to answer.

_I really should look for him, he might be hurt and he did help me, after all. If he's in trouble, it would only be right for me to o my best to help him right back._ She knew she couldn't begin looking for him right away; her knee was in far too much pain to allow her to walk properly.

_If he's not back by the time my knee stops aching so bad, I will look for him_, she decided.

Raoul was beginning to lose hope that he would ever see Christine again. Though the note had said she'd return within a fortnight and it had been a mere eight days, he felt a strange sense of impending doom. He couldn't shake the notion that Christine was about to die.

Oh, how he hated to think it! Would that he could force his brain to think only of their joyous reunion and her recounting of the strange affairs surrounding her disappearance, but he found the negative overwhelmed him no matter how he tried.

It hadn't helped that Philippe found it quite necessary to leave on business the same day he'd received the horrible news. Eight days so far, eight days longer at least before the comte would return from Marseilles.

Although the brothers rarely saw eye to eye, Raoul found he missed his brother passionately now. Before he'd found Christine again, he'd been content to be alone. Before that night at the Opera Garnier, he'd been content to flop about at the family home until Philippe gave him his share of the land and booted him out.

He was a boy. Trying to run his own accounts and keep up appearances, he felt like he was fourteen again and playing make-believe with Christine while her father played the violin. Everything he'd done in his brother's absence would either help or hurt him later in life and he hadn't the slightest clue as to which it would be.

Money wasn't exactly what Raoul was cut out for. In the navy, he'd known himself. He might not have been the most gung-ho to take another's life, and he may never have been the type cut out for war, but he'd found himself there.

Here, in Paris, _alone_, he was so lost. The managers talked forever about things he didn't entirely understand, much less care about, and neither of them would answer his questions about _who_ had Christine or where she was or why she hadn't simply returned home.

In fact, try as he might, he couldn't convince anyone at the opera house to speak to him about anything important. Even the one person who seemed to know something beyond what she told would disappear into the crowd anytime Raoul saw her.

Madame Giry, who tended box five, was a most elusive woman. It almost seemed to Raoul that she was a ghost!

He was through waiting, he decided as he disembarked from the carriage at the opera house. _I will find Madame Giry and she will answer my questions tonight_.

Something was amiss. He knew it before he reached the parlour and found that Christine's door was hanging wide open and she was gone. It was a strange, gnawing ache below his ribs that felt similar to how it had felt to see Christine sprawled across the ground all wounded and bleeding.

"Christine?" he called as he entered his home. "Christine? I must apologize for my extended absence, I had an emergency come up that needed to be tended to immediately. I would've left a note but I didn't want to risk waking you."

When he was met with nothing but silence, he paused and cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breathing. Silence. "Christine?"

He crossed the parlour in three long strides and stood in the doorway to Christine's room, staring wide-eyed at the empty bed.

With terror growing within him with every second that passed, he threw up the covers and checked all around the bed. When he was certain she wasn't in the bedroom, he tore apart his house searching for her. In a few rooms he found evidence that she had been there, but nothing recent enough to give away where she had gone.

"Christine? Christine!" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the terror from creeping into his voice. If she were merely hiding with intent to pop out and startle him, he would feel so foolish.

But she wasn't. As far as he could tell, she wasn't in his home at all. There was no evidence that she'd fallen into the lake, and there were too many tunnels for him to comb looking for her that he didn't know quite where to start.

It was purely by chance that he noticed the droplets of dried blood and the imprint of the wheel from his wheelbarrow in the dust on the floor. Fresher than those were tiny, dainty shoe prints that he could never have made on his own.

He cringed as he realized that while his footprints were coming toward his home, hers were venturing toward that spiral staircase.

_Oh no,_ he thought, horrified. _Please don't let her have opened any doors!_

It had been curiosity that had driven her further than the confines of Erik's home, curiosity about the strange trail of what appeared to be blood droplets. It wasn't enough blood to worry her, but as she had only seen one other person while staying with Erik, she wanted to find the source.

The fork in the tunnel and spiral staircase seemed to come out of nowhere. A lantern sat at the foot of the staircase, casting eerie shadows down the hall behind the staircase. At all four corners of the fork in the tunnel were doors. Two of them appeared to not have been opened in ages. Thick layers of dust and cobwebs covered these two doors. The other two both looked to have been used more recently or at least more often.

She opened the one nearest to her and found a glorified supply closet. It was large enough to be a small bedroom and filled with various items and cleaning supplies. There was a large, empty space near the front that appeared to have recently been disturbed.

Closing that door, she turned to the other one. For reasons she couldn't quite explain, that door made her nervous. There was something dark and unpleasant about that door. It made her skin crawl. Approaching it made her want to turn and run the other way, yet she knew that she couldn't move on without satisfying her curiosity.

As her hand touched the door handle, she could've sworn she heard someone calling her name. She turned her head to listen as she pushed the door open. It swung far more easily than she expected and she lost her balance, tumbling forward across the cold, stone floor. The door swung shut behind her with a soft _click_.


	18. ugly baby (Baymax voice)

A most peculiar child could be seen most days playing in the dirt in front of his mother's house, what appeared to be a burlap sack stuck crudely over his head with small black holes cut out so he could see. Most of the time he'd be digging and mashing ants with a rock, but sometimes his mother would be particularly kind to him- a rarity in his young life- and give him some scrap fabric, a needle, and some thread.

He taught himself how to sew by peeking in through the window as his mother went about her day. The peculiar little boy who wore a bag on his head was fascinated by the things his mother could do with fabric. Truthfully, the boy was fascinated by everything his mother did. He wanted nothing more than to see her proud of him and loving him, yet it was the one thing he would never experience.

In the morning, the boy would wake to the sound of his mother pounding on the door to the closet in which he slept. He would get up quickly, put his bag on his head carefully, and only then would he be allowed to leave his closet. He would be afforded a small breakfast, which he would have to eat outside as his mother would shoo him out almost immediately.

He wouldn't be allowed back inside until sunset. If it rained he would sit by the door, folded over on himself just trying to warm himself back up. On days when it didn't rain he could wander as far as he wanted, exploring as he pleased. The boy lived for these days, because it meant that he could sneak down the hill on which his mother's house stood. At the bottom of the hill and through some trees, the boy often watched a group of other children play. He never dared get close enough to alert them that he was there.

On the particular day which our story begins, it rained all morning, leaving the poor masked child shivering and soaked to the skin as the sky cleared. Cautious as he ever was, the boy stepped away from the door and into the soggy grass of the yard. The warmth of the sun felt good on his skin as he stepped out of the shade. Looking up, he was pleased to see that the sky was clearing.


	19. His Body (Trigger Warning body horror)

My hands were shaking as I removed my cape and fedora. _She chose to be with me_, I thought, my heart pounding. I'd tried to set her free, tried to send her away with her precious viscomte, but here she remained. She'd escaped with me, fled into the night with me. She seemed to trust that I knew what I was doing, even though there had been the very real chance that we would arrive at the abandoned house that we now took shelter in only to find that someone else had moved in.

Thankfully, we were the only ones there. Once we were inside, we made sure the doors were secure, just in case we were being followed. Now Christine sat by the window staring out into the night while I tried to come up with a plan. I wished that I hadn't gotten her into my mess. I was a wanted man, I wouldn't be able to re-enter Paris for a very long time, if ever, without the fear of being arrested.

_What are you going to do now, Erik?_ I asked myself, _you're endangering not only your own life, but hers as well. You fool._

"It doesn't look like anyone followed us out here," Christine said quietly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I turned around to face her, and found that she was staring at me. I avoided her eyes.

"Good. We should be able to rest here for the night at least, we can decide on a more permanent plan in the morning," I replied. She nodded, and slowly she turned to look out the window again. I slowly crossed the room, heading for the hallway. I was going to check to see what we could do for sleeping arrangements. I'd been using the house as a retreat for some time, so it wasn't completely devoid of furnishings, but it was also in such a state of general disarray that I felt almost embarrassed for having brought Christine there. It was not the kind of place she should've been.

She deserved all the finer things in life. She deserved the life that Raoul could give her, not the life in hiding she would have with me. _Oh Christine_, I thought as I ascended the stairs to the second level, where there were two bedrooms. _Why couldn't you just go? You've doomed yourself to this life now. We'll never be able to stop running. Never._

I peered around the first small bedroom. There was a pile of blankets under the window. In the moonlight, they almost seemed to glow. In the other bedroom, a dirty mattress lay in the middle of the floor, a couple of blankets thrown across it. I hadn't been the last person to sleep in the house. That knowledge made me want to recheck the entire house to make sure that we were alone.

I walked over to the mattress and I shook out the blankets, pleased to find that they weren't quite as filthy as the mattress was. I tucked the blankets around the mattress in an attempt to make it look less disgusting for her, and I walked back into the other room to fetch another blanket or two for her. If I slept, I would sleep in the other room. She needed to know that I expected nothing from her.

Once the mattress was set up, I went back into the other room to set up the other blanket for myself. If I used it at all, it would only be as padding between me and the floor. If Christine woke in the night and was cold, I would gladly give it up for her. I stood in the middle of the room, looking toward the window but not really seeing.

Almost automatically, I found myself rolling up my sleeve just a few inches, exposing my pale wrist and forearm. In the moonlight, the scars stood out like they were drawn on me in black ink. As I began to scratch at the side of my wrist, just behind my thumb, I closed my eyes.

There was something uniquely calming about it, the feeling of my nails scraping away at my skin. I could remember the first time I'd done it, it had been an accident. I'd gotten lost in thought while scratching a particularly bad itch, and when I'd realized what I was doing, I had scratched myself so hard that I bled. Even when I'd realized what had happened, I couldn't see anything wrong with it.

It calmed me. The pain and the sight of the blood gave me something to focus on. It had been the start of something that I still found myself doing.

Behind me, I heard quiet footsteps as Christine came upstairs. I turned around to meet her in the hall, but when she saw me, she screamed.

"Christine? What is it?" I asked. She was looking at me with such sadness in her eyes, such fear- why fear? It broke my heart to see it in her eyes.

"You're bleeding!" she cried. I looked down and found that I was, in fact, bleeding. Not at my wrist, no that scratch was too fresh and not deep enough, but at my waist, very near my navel. I stared at it for a long minute before I realized what was going on. We'd been walking for too long and the stiff waist of my pants had rubbed one of my older sores until it bled again.

She was at my side before I could warn her back. There was no way I was going to allow her to see the sallow skin hidden beneath my clothing. I would deal with the wound when I could be alone.

"Let me help you," she said, and she started to reach for my shirt. I pulled away, imagining I looked very much like an injured, frightened animal. "I'm not going to hurt you, my angel. Please."

I shook my head. "I will see to it in a few moments." I looked around, trying to find anything I could use to change the course of the conversation. "Look," I said, gesturing to the mattress on the floor, "I made a nice place for you to sleep."

"You're being ridiculous," Christine said, distracted for only a moment when I pointed out what I'd done for her, "Now please, lift up your shirt and let me at least try to bandage you."

"Christine, please," I pleaded, "don't make me do this. I'll be fine. It's not so bad." I winced between the last two words, and in the dim light I could see her rolling her eyes at me.

Before I could protest further, she lunged forward and pulled my shirt up, pinning it to my chest with my own shaking hand. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the cry that escaped her lips as she looked at my stomach, which was riddled with half-healed scrapes and dark red and purple scars. I frantically tried to cover myself, turning away from her.

"Please, Christine, I beg you to forget what you have seen, forget the sight of wretched, pitiful Erik," I cried, crumbling to my knees before her. She had seen more of me than anybody should ever have seen, and I felt horrible for having allowed her to. She stood there, staring at me, her eyes wide and filled with sadness even greater than that which I'd seen when she'd first noticed my wound. I couldn't bear to see her this way, and I clung to her skirt, burying my face in the folds of its fabric.

"My angel," she whispered, slowly kneeling next to me. I lowered myself until my forehead was touching the floor through her dress, terrified to look at her. "What horrible life have you known to cause such wounds? My poor, sweet angel, forgive me." Her voice shook, and I finally stole a quick glance up at her. She was crying as she looked down at me.

"You… You are not frightened by how I look?" I asked hesitantly. She shook her head.

"You really ought to let me tend to that cut," she said, "Please, if we are to spend any amount of time together I should like that you continue to live."

She helped me to sit back up, and with shaking hands I slowly pulled my shirt up just enough to uncover the wound that was bleeding. I cringed when I saw how much blood had soaked into my shirt. Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and it was then that I realized how brave she was forcing herself to be. After a moment, she opened her eyes and she looked at the wound.

"How did this happen?" she asked, "Your shirt's not ripped, but the wound is fresh."

"It's not that fresh," I replied.


	20. Originally a prompt, now collects dust

My patience was wearing thin. I had been able to forgive the boy being late by one day, but now four had passed and no word. If much more time were to pass, my patience wouldn't be the only thing wearing thin. I was already beginning to look more sickly than normal, but not as sickly as I was beginning to feel for rationing the last of my food as long as I had. I knew soon the last of my bread would mold and I would be left with nothing to quell the hunger that gnawed at me just below my ribcage.

_If he does return,_ I thought angrily, but I couldn't finish the thought. Of course he wouldn't return. The boy had known I wouldn't venture out in daylight, and he very likely was far away now, and with a reasonable sum of _my_ money. He should count himself lucky if I never found him. I balled my hands up into fists, roaring with frustration and anger, though the sound quickly changed to laughter as I imagined exactly what I would do to him. "Count yourself lucky, boy!" I said to the darkness that surrounded my home, "So lucky that I, who you mistake for a fool, cannot bear to step foot on the crowded streets of Paris in the daytime."

I clenched my fists so tightly that my knuckles turned a strange shade of white, paler yet more intense than my already pale complexion. I hadn't wished to leave my home on this night, but with my supplies dwindling I had no other choice.

I changed my clothes quickly, avoiding looking at my face for the brief moments I spent in front of my mirror. Despite my mask, I did my best not to look at myself. As I shrugged into my cape, however, I found myself looking into my own sunken, yellow eyes. I smoothed back my hairpiece before taking the fedora that hung from the corner of the mirror and donning it as well. I was as ready as I was every going to be, and if I was correct, night should have fallen already.

I took a candle with me down the corridor that led to a sewer grate I would be able to slip out from and into the streets of Paris without being detected. Not that it would matter. With the cover of night's beautiful darkness, I could come and go as I pleased without being seen by anyone unless I wished to make myself known.

The night air was cool and fresh, far different from the usual, stale air of my home below the city. I breathed it in deeply as I walked quickly through the darkened streets. There were still many people out and about, but none of them gave me even a second glance. Still, I made haste through the streets to the small shop I usually requested my food and drink be bought from, only to be met by a dark storefront and a locked door.

In fact, it seemed most shops were closed by this time. Those which weren't yet were very nearly prepared to close for the evening. A flash of panic gripped me just below my throat as I realized I would have to go another night without a proper meal, however that panic paled in comparison to that which made my blood run cold. If the boy didn't return, and the shops began closing at nightfall, what was I to do?

Wandering the streets at night was nothing in comparison to stepping even one foot outside during the daylight hours. The roads would be ever more crowded, with that many people who might see me, no, who _would_ see me. That many more people to accidentally bump into.

The very thought was enough to make me too uncomfortable to remain above ground any longer, and I turned abruptly so I could head back. As I turned, I smacked into a young woman. The second I realized what happened I jumped backward, eyes wide as I stared down at the girl, who was being escorted by a man at least five years my senior.

Stammering through a curt apology, I stole away through the shadows, stopping again only to open the grate that marked the sewer entrance I used to come and go. Once I climbed back down and replaced the grate, it was as though I became a new person. I squared my shoulders as I retraced the familiar tunnel back to my home on the lake. Safely underground where I was free to roam as I pleased, I began to formulate a plan. I wouldn't be broken so easily.


	21. you have truly made my night

"Please, Raoul stop it!" Christine cried. Seconds later, the back of his hand made contact with her cheek, the impact of his knuckles against her cheekbone causing her skin to split, a dribble of blood trailing down her lightly flushed skin. She staggered backward, slowly raising her hand to touch her cheek. She cried out when she felt the blood, her eyes searching Raoul's for any hint of regret. All she was met with was a look of mixed rage and betrayal.

"You little tart, did you think I wouldn't find out about you sneaking around with _him_?" he hissed, raising his hand to her again. Christine flinched, looking down and away from him. This enraged Raoul, the fact that she wouldn't even look him in the eye told him all he thought he needed to know.

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her closer to him, making her cry out in pain as she stumbled forward. "Raoul, please! I- I haven't done anything, I haven't seen him since before the chandelier fell! You have to believe- ah!" Her words were cut short as he threw her against the wall and watched as she crumpled to the floor, cowering from him and trying to cover her head.

Erik had heard the viscomte's yelling, had heard things crashing as they were thrown around Christine's dressing room, and he had made haste to her mirror to check on her. What he saw when he reached the mirror made his heart stop and his blood boil.

The Viscomte de Chagny stood with his back to the mirror, and from what Erik could see, there was a frightened girl between him and the wall. It took Erik a moment to recognize Christine, though it was her dressing room. The fear in her eyes was that which he had never seen before.

Rage boiled just beneath the Phantom's skin, and as Raoul reached down and yanked Christine back to her feet by her hair, Erik opened the mirror. "You would dare harm someone smaller than you, monsieur le viscomte?" he hissed. The fear and pain in Christine's eyes was torture for him to see. "Let her go."

"_You_," Raoul said, whipping around to face him. His hand still firmly gripped the girl's hair, and she was pulled around quite painfully as he moved. "I might've expected as much. Here, take your _whore_." The viscomte shoved Christine forward, letting go of her hair and allowing her to fall to the floor at the Phantom's feet. Christine sobbed, covering her head with her arms, pressing her forehead and nose to the floor.

Erik balled his hands into fists, his entire body tensing up as he watched her fall, too quickly for him to catch her. She looked so small, so helpless. He could hear his pulse thundering in his ears as his vision went white, then red. He carefully stepped past Christine, making certain not to touch her or frighten her as he did.

Raoul raised his hands to defend himself, but Erik's hands were around the man's throat before he could properly react. Erik continued walking until he had slammed the other man against the wall, causing him to cry out in pain. Erik tightened his grip around Raoul's throat, digging his fingernails into the man's skin. "One thing a man mustn't do," he hissed as the viscomte flailed and clawed at his arms, "is cause harm to a woman. Especially a woman who has done nothing to wrong anyone."

The younger man clawed and thrashed, but Erik's grip held. It was only as his vision began to darken that he realized what he could do to shift the Phantom's attention and possibly free himself. Raoul reached out, his hand shaking, and his fingertips grazed the edge of the mask the other man wore.

Erik jerked his head back and away from the viscomte's outstretched hand, and he slammed the man against the wall, forcing out what little breath the man still held in a pained squeak. He slammed the man against the wall again, and this time he allowed him to fall gasping and wheezing to the floor. "Are you in pain?" Erik asked. His voice held little emotion, only a slight hint of what could've been joy but also could've been pain tinted his words. "Do you feel _small_? Helpless?"

The viscomte glared up at him, and Erik smirked as he kicked the man in the chest, knocking him backward before he sprawled across the floor with a grunt. This caused a mild cry of panic from Christine, who was still on the floor just behind Erik.

He turned to glance back at her, and found that she was staring, in horror, at the viscomte. He felt a minor wave of relief wash over him as he realized that her fear wasn't caused by him. He turned his attention back to the young man, kicking him in the ribs, kicking him hard enough that he heard a loud crack coupled with a cry of pain.

Erik then knelt beside Christine. "Are you hurt?" he asked, very gently placing his hand on her arm. As she pulled away, so did he. She looked up into his face, her eyes wide and full of fear. She said nothing. "Your angel will not hurt you," Erik said, trying to sound soothing. "I only want to ensure that _he_," Erik nodded in Raoul's direction, "will never hurt you again."

Christine hesitated, glancing over at Raoul, who was still groaning and clutching at his side, but slowly stretched her hand out to Erik, who took it in his own. He held her hand so gently that anyone who hadn't witnessed him nearly choke the life from the viscomte just moments earlier wouldn't have believed he was capable of such an act. Christine was shaking as she sat up and threw her free arm around her angel's neck, burying her face in his shoulder as fresh sobs were ripped from her lungs.

Erik was taken aback by the way she wrapped herself around him, but he draped his arm across her back. "I've got you, you're all right," he whispered into her hair.


	22. Bloated lips

Those first few days and nights were the hardest. She felt she was walking on eggshells whenever she and her angel were within an arm's length of each other. After he'd cut Raoul loose, he'd allowed her to say a quick goodbye while he covered his face once more, and then he'd taken her roughly by the arm and led her off through a series of tunnels and out into the cool night air. From there, he all but dragged her to the opera's stables, where he quickly readied a beautiful all-black horse for their escape.

Christine had whispered a tearful goodbye to her home in Paris as they fled into the night. They only stopped near dawn, when they reached a small house in the shade of a hill. Erik, believing that the soprano had fallen asleep as they rode, carried her carefully from where he left the horse to graze into the house, where he lay her gently across a small sofa. She tensed as she felt his strange, bloated lips press against her forehead, but soon found herself alone.


	23. Horrible awful shipper trash

"Christine, I love you," her angel's words shattered what was left of Christine's heart, and she turned away from him, desperate not to start sobbing while he could still see her. She took a few shaky steps back toward where Raoul waited for her, but stopped. Behind her, she could hear the Phantom's every shaking breath as he fought just as hard as she did to maintain composure. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing her eyes.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime, let me lead you from your solitude," she sang quietly, her voice shaking and faltering.

"S-Say the word and I will follow you…" Came her angel's reply, hopeful, almost desperate. Christine glanced back at him over her shoulder.

"Say you need me with you, here beside you, anywhere you go let me go, too," Christine's voice grew in strength as she allowed a small, hopeful smile to grace her lips. Tears were flowing down her cheeks as she saw that same hope in her angel's eyes.

"Christine," he spoke her name almost as though it was being forced from his lungs, "That's- That's all I ask of you."

She turned back to face him, and after a long moment she ran to him, wrapping her arms around his thin frame and nuzzling against his neck. His movements were more hesitant, but her heart soared as she felt him wrap his arms around her as well. She wanted to stay like that, just standing there, holding him, forever.

But the mob grew ever closer, and if they were to escape they would need to make their great escape soon. Christine pulled away from him slowly, swallowing hard before looking up and into his face. It wasn't so bad now, she was starting to get used to his disfigurement.

"Oh Christine," her angel's voice was filled with joy as he took her hands. He listened for a moment to try and determine how far away the mob was, and then he led Christine through his home, putting on one of his other masks, a wig, his fedora, and his cape as they went. He helped Christine quickly change into a more practical dress, and Christine caught him blushing as he laced up the back


	24. Human mask

It seemed almost too good to be true. Just days before, Erik had been lamenting over the loss of one of his most trusty masks. Now he was face to face with a man as good as dead who had a most intriguing look to him. Aside from that, his head was roughly the same size as Erik's, his face shaped nearly the same. The gears in his head began turning as he cut the poor bastard down. He was almost certain that he remembered how to cure leather, and it wouldn't be too difficult to use those skills to preserve a slab of human skin in place of a cow hide…

The dead man slumped forward, his head hitting the stone floor with a crack that echoed up and down the corridor, yet nobody in the main of the opera house was likely to hear the sound. With a little luck and skill, Erik would be able to walk amongst normal human beings without drawing too much attention to himself.


	25. Poor christine

Their lives had been nothing but misfortune following misfortune from the moment that Christine discovered that she was with child. Their home had burnt to the ground, very nearly taking them with it, and then Erik had broken his leg, keeping their movements quite limited for months after.

It didn't help that Christine was struck with terrible morning sickness that prevented her from keeping almost anything down. It wasn't until her seventh month that she could eat any semblance of a proper meal again, and at that point they were snowbound in their new home, unable to make it into town for days. At first, it had been lovely, but then Christine had come down with a fever.

She was bedridden for the last two months, and in that time she deteriorated quickly, much to Erik's despair. He did his best, did all he could think of to keep her comfortable and safe. She was his angel, his beautiful Christine who could look past his deformities and love the man he was, deep down inside.

When he woke next to her that morning, he knew something was horribly wrong. Her skin was impossibly hot and she was positively drenched in sweat. As he sprang up from their shared bed, he noticed the puddle he'd been laying in and realized in horror that their child was on the way.

He was not ready. Christine was not ready. He knew that she had very little chance of survival in her current state. She hadn't been coherent in days. He didn't want to think about that as he peeled the sheets away from his wife's soaked skin. He undressed her and carried her to the bath, where he ran cool water over her in a vain attempt to cool her off.

The cool water did have one effect; she roused enough to begin pushing. She didn't seem aware of her husband attempting to coach her through it, didn't seem to feel his hands on her face as the light slowly left her eyes…

Her job was finished, her body spent. Within minutes of birthing a baby girl, Christine drew her final breath.


	26. oops

Christine hesitated as she raised her hand to knock on the door to her husband's study. She didn't want to tell him. She knew that he was going to overreact. But it wasn't something she could just keep from him. He'd grow suspicious when she started getting rounder in the stomach. Even if she managed to keep it a secret until the baby was born, how was she going to hide an infant? No, it was best to tell him now.

Perhaps his reaction would be a pleasant surprise. That's what she was hoping for, at least. She knocked three times and waited for a response. When she heard nothing, she called, "Erik? I know you're in there, you've been avoiding me all day."

"I'm avoiding nobody," boomed a voice from deep within the room. He sounded both defensive and annoyed. Christine sighed.

"Erik, please come out. I need to talk to you."

There was a long silence before the doorknob turned and the door slowly opened, revealing the once-terrifying Opera Ghost in all his disheveled glory. His mask and wig were the only things that had been meticulously placed. It was obvious that he was doing something which required him to be comfortable, as his shirt was unbuttoned and he'd decided against the vest and jacket that usually completed his dapper ensemble.

"What is troubling you, _ma chérie_?" her angel asked, cupping her face gently in his hands. She smiled, closing her eyes at his touch. There was something so strangely calming about his cool skin.

"Erik," she said, slowly taking one of his hands between her own and guiding it down from her face to her stomach, "I… We're going to be parents." Her voice cracked on the last two words. She couldn't believe what she was telling him.


End file.
